It Has Been a Day
by itusedtobefun
Summary: Updated November 14th. "My answer is always this, don't fight it, don't fight it, don't fight it, if you don't know what it is..." (The Panics). This story is a languorous telling of Gail's and Holly's journey after ep. 13, and of the reluctant evolution of Gail Peck as she figures it all out. Hence the length. As ever, thanks for your reviews! xo
1. Chapter 1: Gail

**Please take a minute to review your thoughts on the story so far when you are done. Feedback is always deeply appreciated and, let's not kid ourselves (Gail Peck wouldn't), highly motivating!**

It isn't until she finally makes it back to the station that Gail finds a minute to herself. She goes straight to her desk, yanks back her chair, sinks into its stained seat and flicks open her case notes.

There is a hush in the office. Sure, there are the usual milling crowds, people shuffling paper, making coffee and walking back and forth between desks, but they aren't saying much. Usually it's impossible to think in here with all the banter and the jibes and jokes that make the necessary evil of paperwork tolerable. Not today. And Gail recognises the sound in this silence. It's expectation. Expectation of the worse: horrifying news like another cop shot or even just the hearing vaguely alarming news that it is their turn to go on patrol. The only way for all these tough cops to not let on they are scared of the rest of the day is to put their heads down and keep quiet and wait it out. Gail knows this because she feels the same.

She picks up her pen. It hovers over her paper, never touching the page. It doesn't matter. She has absolutely no plan to write a word. All the write-ups can wait until tomorrow. She knows that if there is ever any day this year - in this career - that she will get away with falling behind on case notes, this will be the one.

The pen isn't for writing with, anyway. The pen is her shield. Most people around here know not to talk to her when she is being bureaucratic, lest she unleash the snark. Protected by her inky defence, she can now take a moment to just stare into that comfy middle distance between her face and the page and process everything that has happened since she made the questionable decision to wake up this morning.

Gail just needs a minute. In fact, she needs a lot of goddam minutes. She has just spent the last hour waiting with a terrified little girl for her mother to arrive at the hospital only to return to the station to the news Chloe was still in surgery in a different hospital. And now she needs a minute to let the muscle-seizing, throat-grabbing fear of that walk down a hallway with Oliver that had, luckily, only ended in sick old man and his granddaughter - instead of an armed attacker - dissipate. Being violently ambushed had not been on her agenda for this day- or any day for that matter. And now, Gail Peck is going to need that minute if she is going to be able cope whatever else life chooses to throw at Division 15 today.

It has been…. a day.

She cannot think of any apt way to describe what has basically been a shit storm of a shift.

And that is saying something. Between the self-hate of being a dirty cheat, the soul-destroying break-ups, with having to deal with the guilt-feelings of treacherous best friends - not to mention the hot mess hospital stays, there have been some monumentally shitty days for Gail Peck of late.

But a day like this?

A day that started with a hangover and quickly moved to a work mate you almost-maybe-kind-of-liked-enough-to-call-a-friend being nearly killed by a random, cop-hating revenge-junky with a hunting rifle? A day that continued with being shot at by the very same guy? A day that saw her performing random acts of lesbianism in the interview room? A day that involved Oliver maybe cottoning-on to said potential newfound lesbianism and trying to play dad by not-so surreptitiously counselling her? A day that has so very nearly brought you nearly undone from feeling the tiny birdlike beating of a terrified little girl's heart against your chest -a girl you could never fully comfort because she has just done the most frightening/brave thing she had ever done in her short life and her only reward might be a dead granddad? A day that last saw your maybe-new girlfriend asking you to call her at the end of the shift just to tell her you weren't dead -right before you have to go out there again?

Gail sighs into her case notes. There are no adjectives to describe this kind of day. And it isn't even over yet.

She looks up and does a quick sweep of the room, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. Oliver doesn't seem to have re-appeared. Relieved, she peers back down at the empty page. She will be safe in her office-cocoon for a while longer.

She thinks about Oliver's stupid speech in the car during what may or may not have been his thinly-veiled Daddy-daughter coming-out talk, all about taking chances for love, expecting the unexpected and making changes. All that gross psycho-babble self-help pap Oliver says when he is trying to talk himself into doing something stupid - like date a witch.

She shakes her head slightly, as if to shake away the growing mortification she'd felt during that spiel - feelings that are trying to make a return visit now. Maybe he really _was_ just talking about him and Celery. She hopes so. It is hard to tell with Oliver. He's so glibly all-seeing.

She taps her pen on her empty coffee cup and tells herself it doesn't matter. Even if her was referring to her, Gail Peck has absolutely no plans to make any major life changes. Just like she told that therapist, she has no intentions of switching teams. Sure, she kissed Holly. But that doesn't make her a lesbian. That makes her someone who is into Holly.

There will be no coming out speech from Gail Peck. No way.

Anyway, why should there be? It is the twenty billionth century and everyone is making out with everyone, aren't they? Her friends can hardly raise their eyebrows. The crazy-ass choices they make in their heterosexual relationships beg way more judgement than any life choice change Gail could make.

No, it doesn't freak Gail out that Holly is a girl - although she does have many questions - largely following up on the wardrobe-sharing line of questioning and some other, uh, more mechanical issues of a potential hook-up. It does, however, scare her that her friends would know she was _that_ into someone. She prefers people to see her as being doggedly intent on making other people go as far away as possible.

If anything scares her about being with Holly, it isn't the lesbian label. What really scares her is that Holly is the first person Gail has met in a long time who not only seems to get her, but instantly seemed to figure out how to deactivate the defensive shield Gail keeps in place for these very purposes.

This was the first thing she had noticed about her new friend. Unlike so many people around her, Holly had just blithely ignored Gail's bitch shtick. From the minute they had met Holly seemed to have absolutely no qualms about calling Gail on her crap, or laughing at her caustic attempts to alienate her. It surprised Gail that instead of being offended, or shying from Gail's jibes like so many people, Holly just seemed to shrug and laugh and then throw Gail's particularly acerbic brand of sarcasm right back at her. And, annoyingly, she delivered it in a far more charming, charismatically superior way than Gail could ever muster.

And Gail certainly didn't expect to like it.

Gail wasn't sure at first how she felt being matched - bettered even - at her own game, but eventually she couldn't help kind of admire the way Holly kept the upper hand by playing Gail's the same, but playing it nicer. Anything mildly cutting or sarcastic comment was defused by the warmth of the smile that accompanied it. And while she teased Gail back, the wry crinkle in the corner of her eyes seemed to say, 'I get you, and I am not afraid of the crap you throw in the way to stop people from being your friend'. It was hard to deny the inveigling charm of a woman who offered such warmth to someone who didn't really deserve to be treated so well sometimes.

And Gail knew that a similar message was being sent when Holly kissed her in the cloakroom at the wedding. Dealt out smack bang in the middle of one of Gail's trademark catty attacks, that quick kiss was like a telegram. Gail may not be as geek-smart as Holly, but she read situations well enough to know that the kiss had been her new friend's crazy-ass version of aversion therapy. Gail knew that this kiss wasn't intended say 'I am hot for you and want to make lesbian babies with you'. Sure, there was a was a note in it expressing that Holly thought she was attractive and may or may not be up for something lest it might arise- but in a completely relaxed not-so-much-that-I-won't-turn-around-and-dump-you- for-the-nearest-dance-floor way.

No, Holly wasn't hitting on her. Not then, anyway. She was teasing her. And she was telling Gail she was sticking around no matter what Gail said or did. Gail knew the real message contained in that kiss was, 'Don't bother being a bitch. It won't work. I know exactly how to thwart your knee jerk mean girl reactions, and I know how to do it in the quickest, most disarmingly charming way possible.'

In kissing her, Holly passed a test that no one - friend or boyfriend - had in a long time, the test of being able to call Gail on her bullshit defensive act. It was annoying, but incredibly appealing. Lying in bed after the wedding, feeling the dull creeping thud of champagne at her temples, she recalled the affectionate but wryly patronising way Holly had called her insane and then just jumped up and left her there, mouth open, to process what had just passed between them. However annoying, Gail knew she wanted more of that treatment. She just didn't know if she wanted more Holly in general, or more Holly kissing in specific.

It would have been helpful if she had any idea what was going on in Holly's head, but she hadn't. And she wasn't about to ask. That would make a thing that might not be a thing into a thing, and Gail didn't want to be the one to do that. Until this afternoon, aside from that teasing kiss in the cloakroom, Holly had not given one single other sign she might be into Gail in any way beyond friendship. It frustrated Gail because she can always tell when guys like her. Guys are easy and kind of obvious. That is why Gail likes them. But Holly, Holly is not. But then, that is why Gail likes her. And although she wasn't sure where that cloakroom kiss had left her, it did leave her curious about possibilities it may or may not have presented.

"Peck. I heard you took fire. You okay?"

Gail doesn't even look up. She can tell from the crawly, deferential tone it's not someone who she needs to use manners with.

"Go. Away."

She listens for the defeated shuffle of retreating well-polished rookie boots and sighs. Conversation thwarted. Mission complete. She returns to her thoughts.

Then there was last night at the bar: Gail's very own personal date-watching, trivia-failing nightmare. Last night it had seemed pretty certain Holly wasn't interested in her romantically. When her friend had walked away from her to meet her date, Gail had tried to play it cool. But later, as she sat and watched Holly and her annoyingly attractive date, Gail was helpless to the slow-forming tapestry of conflicting thoughts arranging themselves unhelpfully in her brain. Not only were their conflicting messages unhelpful, they were making her feel _crazy_. Double whiskey drinking, straw-stabbing,arm-wrestling Chris in the car on the way home just to get the rage out of her system crazy.

Watching Holly and the girl, she chewed on her straw and forced herself to examine the slightly murderous feelings she was beginning to harbour for this annoyingly attractive woman -a woman Holly was talking and laughing with in a frustratingly genuine way. Why did she have to have feelings about this at all?

Not even pretending to make shots at the answers to Dov's ego-assuaging second round of trivia, Gail busied herself by holding up each possible explanation for these feelings of rage by one up, examining them in that curious but kind of menacing way cats play with dead things.

Was she only feeling this rage because she was being her usual narcissistic self, and was jealous that Holly was hanging out with someone else? Was it just that Gail had been getting all the Holly-time lately, and a girlfriend would be a threat to all that undivided attention?

Or was she angry because Holly was into someone else and Gail had pretty much planning on Holly being into her -if and when Gail decided she might be into Holly?

What would happen in Holly fell in love with this beautiful bitch - there, she said it - sitting next to her? Would Gail be free from ever making her mind up, or would she continue to feel like this -a petulant, possessive child?

Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't distressed by this situation at all. Maybe this was just Gail's everyday non-specified source rage. Maybe it was just taking the late shift tonight? Nope, not even Gail could fool herself with that one. These feelings had started with Holly and her date and she knew it.

By the time the two women had left the bar together and Gail had finally dragged her sorry, intoxicated backside to bed, she had less idea of the source of her feelings of crazy than she had been before she embarked on those hard-drinking hours of deliberation. That was one thing Gail Peck was no good at, she noted wearily as she lay back against her pillow, figuring out this _feelings_ business. She was, however, good at thinking about herself in the third person, she noted.

And when she woke up in the morning to the tentative overtures of her hangover, she was still not precisely sure what those feelings were about. She did, however, have a resolute sense that whatever she might feel for Holly might not matter now, anyway.

But that was this morning. Now was this afternoon. And this afternoon Gail knows differently because she now knows three very, very important things that she didn't know about Holly this morning.

One: Holly gave a serious shit whether she lived or died -enough to make a stupid, transparent excuse for coming to 15 to see if she was okay when she heard about the shootings

Two: Holly was not interested in that girl.

Three: Holly was interested in _her._

And Holly was interested enough to trade in her usual cool, unflappable exterior for a naïve stuttering girl act of which Gail would never have imagined her capable. While it surprised her, it was this disarming nervousness in Holly that gave Gail the kind of permission she hadn't given herself for a long time -permission to openly want someone.

The moment Gail knew she was safe to have feelings for Holly was exactly the moment she let herself have feelings for her. But before she let Holly know about them, she wanted that self-assured, beautiful, charmingly cocky woman back in the place of this incoherent teenager.

She watched Holly ramble and realised it was her turn to perform their special brand of aversion therapy.

Before she could second-guess herself she reached in and wrapped her fingers around the woman's face, breaking off her rant with a kiss. Gail felt Holly lean into her, returning the kiss harder. She lingered in it for a brief moment and then pulled back, weakened from the intense rush of feelings racing round her body. Yes, they had _definitely_ been Holly-kissing specific feelings she'd been having. She inhaled sharply and looked up at Holly.

"I'm sorry, you just had to stop talking," she said, maintaining her cool.

"I won't say another word," muttered Holly, wide-eyed, a deer in headlights.

Clearly, her work wasn't done. Gail pressed her hands more firmly against Holly's face and looked at back up at her. Suddenly, Holly's nervousness wasn't bad. It was kind of beautiful. And it was for her. Holly wanted _her_. Gail kissed her again.

This time it was Holly who pulled back. She smiled wryly at Gail, brushed a hand across her cheek and said casually, "message me at the end of the shift, will you? Just so I know you're not dead."

Gail smiled. Holly was _back_.

Then Gail had just nodded and made a rapid exit. She knew she had to get out of there before the perfectly constructed limbo they'd made in this room became too comforting for her to be able go back and face the rest of this shift.

It was jarring, though, to walk out of that room, still reeling, to be faced with the everydayness of Oliver and his uniform and his phone and his orders and all that _daylight_.

Gail puts down her pen, and looks around the office. _Where is_ Oliver? There is till no sign of him and it is getting late. If they have to go out on patrol again, she wants to get it over and done with. And she wants to be able to message Holly.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone, giving in to the urge. She opens her messages and types.

_Still got a few hours to go, but so far so good being shot-to-death-wise._

The response comes quickly.

_Good. Hurry up and stay un-dead until the end. I want to stop watching Next Top Model repeats and go to bed knowing you're alive_.

Gail smiles and then quickly bites her lip to stem it before it turns into a grin. Just in case anyone is watching.

******This is my first fic.**

******Please take a minute to review your thoughts on the story so far when you are done. Feedback is always deeply appreciated and, let's not kid ourselves (Gail Peck wouldn't), highly motivating!**


	2. Chapter 2: Holly

_**Please take a minute to review your thoughts on the story so far when you are done. Feedback is always deeply appreciated and, let's not kid ourselves (Gail Peck wouldn't), highly motivating!**_

_Good. Hurry up and stay un-dead until the end. I want to stop watching Next Top Model repeats and go to bed knowing you're alive_.

Holly closes her messages and pushes her phone along the breakfast bar, far enough out of reach that she won't be able to keep glancing at it. She sips her wine and sighs.

Holly isn't watching _Next Top Model_. Not really. It is just being used as a background sound to the work she has neglected all day, the work that is currently laid out on the bench in front of her. It just sounded more entertaining than telling Gail she was finally getting around to working on a peer review of a colleague's article on the comparative study of the presence of subdural haematomas in the deaths of drug and alcohol users in Canada. And frankly, after this day, neither of them needs an epic text message like that- or to discuss the terrifying, interminable nearness of death again.

Now she has received a message from Gail, she is no longer as worried. What is distracting her from taking a pen to the mangled references in this paper now is not her fears for Gail's safety as much it is the very idea of Gail Peck herself.

That and the incessant chatter of would-be models on her television, that is.

The backdrop bleating of this group of skinny post-teens talking about finding their real selves with the right mascara and selfie seems to transport Holly right back to her university days. Those days were not so long ago, but long enough for the memories of her first years to be hazy around the edges. One of the generic images she can conjure of her university life, though, is the unabating presence of these kinds of girls.

Back then, the scenario would be pretty much the same: Holly would be working her ass off, head down, study frown on, a pile of books blocking her view of the world. Meanwhile some girls just like these girls (okay, maybe not quite as uniformly good-looking, Holly conceded) would gather in flocks nearby, babbling about their thighs or their exercise regimens or the weird scar on their boyfriend's back, creating a noisy backdrop of deeply shallow chatter. The only difference would be that instead of being on a TV, those girls would be at the next table in the café, or the adjacent desks in the library or camped out next to her, sunbathing on the vast green lawns of her old campus. And there'd be no Tyra, of course.

No wonder it had taken her so long to figure out she had been a lesbian. Holly spent so much time avoiding girls like that that she spent a lot of time avoiding the company of girls in general. At university, they seemed to be everywhere. In those days of epic study marathons in a rotating selection of cafes (winter) and a range of campus picnic tables (summer) where she liked to do her study, she could mostly keep the incessant patter of those girls at bay. By the sheer force of her study ethic she could reduce it to a mere background hum But sometimes, just sometimes the force field would evaporate for a second and suddenly she'd be transported from a lab report or a paper to:

"What do you care? You don't even like him that much", or "maybe you should try green tea crème on that."

It always staggered her how when she found herself listening to these inanities that she understood the words, but still couldn't understand what they were saying exactly. Everything they said seemed to be infused with some sort of judgement or statement about each other's failings. Holly couldn't help feeling like everything they said was about something else -that what they said was less important for the conversation's sake, but more important for what it did to establish the pecking order among them.

When she accidentally tuned into one of these conversations, transported suddenly, against her will, by a high-pitched squeal or a collective giggle from her work to this unknown girl world, she never failed to wonder how she'd managed to miss the period where all girls seemed to learn the unspoken language of power relations that went on inside these groups. Holly just didn't get it. She detected it. She could partly read it. But she didn't think she'd ever be able to - or want to – speak it.

See, Holly was brought up to think that people were basically good and that people were generally inclined to take care of each other because life is kind of hard, and the world is kind of screwed, and if you didn't have people you loved around you to navigate it with, it was that much harder. Why did these girls not seem to know this? Why were so many of them so unkind to each other?

It wasn't until a gay male friend of hers explained that all the power brokering that went on among these types of girls was all about competing for men. This was news to Holly. Even though she had not yet figured she was gay, she had never realised she was supposed to be in competition with these girls around her in finding and dating the right guy. But then, Holly smiles into her wine, she hadn't really been all that gifted at heterosexuality.

Of course she eventually figured learned that not all girls were like this, that she'd just been unlucky in where she'd chosen to carry her books for the first few semesters. Eventually, Holly also met girls at university who were kind and interesting and funny and who talked about the world and ideas. It had just taken her a while to find them.

She sits up to stretches. She is getting sore, scrunched over her work like this- the work she is not even doing. Idly picking up an empty take out container, she pokes at the remains of her dinner. A thought strikes her.

Was Gail once one of those girls?

She knows Gail can be mean, and mean in that kind of snaky way those types of girls seem to specialise in. In fact, Gail was kind of mean from the first moment they met. Holly can easily picture Gail absorbed within one of these packs, talking lipstick, or hair colour or attracting guys, meanwhile trading secrets and judgements about other girls. Hell, Gail was probably more than a member. She was probably a leader.

But there is another quality to Gail's meanness, something so knowing and so openly, combative and snippy, it is practically bordering on being a satire of the stereotypical mean girl than actually being one. They way she did things like calling Holly "lunchbox" and alluding to her being smelly that first day they met. It was so deliberately immature it was something else altogether. Gail seems to openly pride herself on the speed at which she can alienate people. But Holly also recognised that there was something so undeservedly charming in this girl's brittle humour, that she probably still had some friends left standing somewhere, despite her cattiness.

From the moment Holly met her, though, she got the sense that Gail was a girl learning to get along without her pack. She sensed it in the way Gail had stayed all day at the lab, long after she could have left. The way she veered so quickly from throwing random barbed statements, to that personal confession about how she functioned in relationships- something about cats up trees. Gail had things on her mind and she seemed to have no one else to share them with. Or more likely, no one she wanted to share them with.

Holly sensed that this lone wolf act was temporary or new somehow. While she and Gail probably would have made friends anyway in any circumstances, there was neediness in the way Gail had stayed there all day just to talk, in the way she had suddenly need a plus one for a wedding, and the way she would submit herself humiliatingly to playing more baseball with Holly – even though she was awful at it and she hates to be laughed at - rather than doing something else with someone else. And Holly is sure, Gail was - is - in hiding from the something or someone she used to do these kinds of things with.

Holly doesn't know if the pack has turned on Gail, or Gail has turned on her pack. What she does know is Gail is a girl in transition. From what to where Holly does not know. She can definitely see the potential in Gail to be one of those girls who used to baffle Holly, so vapid and catty and ready to turn on others, but she can also see another Gail crystallising: one who, when she finally stops hurting everything or everyone before it can hurt her, shows flashes every now and then that she has the goods be someone as textured and substantial as she is beautiful and sharp. It seems Holly has met Gail just at the right time.

And Holly is pretty sure the reason Gail had been so open to friendship with Holly is somehow connected to the heated encounter she'd witnessed the day she picked up Gail from hospital.

Although she couldn't hear from where she stood, she sensed that whatever Gail was saying to that skinny, strained-looking brunette in the matching uniform, it was something hurtful. And she already knew Gail well enough to know - just from her face - that whatever she was saying, this was not just her usual, casual hobbyist vilification, but something else altogether. Even from ten feet away Holly could register the hurt in Gail's face. Whoever that girl was, she was at the receiving end of the self-protective strike of a wounded animal. Holly shuddered to think what Gail could say when she was in pain -given what she could deliver when she was downright chipper.

As she drove Gail home, Holly hadn't asked what was going on with her friend. She knew it wasn't her business to ask. They were not at that place in their friendship yet. She was a friend who could be asked for lifts in times of trouble, but she was not a friend with a right to pry just yet.

Instead, she kept quiet and drove and let Gail process whatever had happened there in that hospital hallway on her own.

They had been driving for some time when Gail finally spoke.

"I was thinking," she said slowly, "It might be the drugs - it's probably the drugs, but aren't the connections between people so...so…" She sighed, seemingly at a loss to finish her sentence.

"Important?" Holly guessed, pausing at a traffic light. She felt Gail shoot her a look.

"Do I look like Oprah, Holly? Do I?" She snapped her fingers together. "Different word."

Holly tried the opposite tack.

"Um, insignificant?"

A glance at Gail through the rear view mirror told her that her next guess was just as far off.

"Uh ridiculous?" Holly pulled up at a red light, wondering how long it would take to win this particular game of Fill in the Blanks in Gail's Oxy-addled Mind.

"Oh come on, Holly." Gail slapped a hand on the dashboard. "You're a doctor!"

Holly didn't bother trying to explain the complete absence of connection between her ability to find the right adjective to describe something she didn't even know she was describing, and her scientific qualifications. There was no point. Instead she thought back to the exchange she'd seen in the hospital hallway- the moment she assumed was the trigger for whatever statement about relationships a stoned Gail was hell bent on completing just now.

"Maybe, uh, fragile?" she offered.

Gail shot up from where she'd been slumped in her seat.

"Close! Yes. Close. Come on, Holly!" Gail cheered as though they really were in some incredibly exciting game show and there was big money on the line. "Another!"

Holly grimaced, "Um…um… tenuous?"

Yes!" Gail shot a fist in the air. "Tenuous! That's it! Ten-yoooo-us!" she hooted.

Holly raised an eyebrow and looked over at Gail.

"They really dosed you up good, didn't they?"

Although she was changing lanes and had to return her eyes to the road, she could feel those icy blue eyes drilling into her again as Gail said accusingly, "Well yes, maybe it is the drugs. Or maybe, just maybe, Holly, it's just possible I like that word very much."

"Oh-kay, then", Holly replied, smiling and shaking her head. This girl was nuts -delightfully, certifiably, nuts.

"Next street on the left, please." Gail started singing quietly along to the radio and didn't say another word until Holly dropped her at her door.

So it seemed whatever it was that Gail to share about this tenuous nature of the relationships in her life was forgotten in the playing of the of the world's weirdest word game and Holly knew no more- and maybe even less- than she did before that car ride home

After dropping Gail off and turning towards her own place, Holly had thought about how if she had known that hidden somewhere in those packs of girls back then that there may possibly have been girls like Gail, she might have spent less time avoiding them. Then, Gail might never have been one of those girls. She is yet to get a picture of who Gail once was.

All Holly knows is that she has never met a girl like Gail. And she has never, ever, spent that much time trying to figure out a girl like that. And she sure as hell has never, ever in her life been attracted to a girl like that.

And how she got to a moment where she was kissing this girl in the darkened interview room of a police station is almost completely beyond her. Holly is not sure yet, though, which part she is more confounded by: the fact she was kissed by this oddity of a girl, or the fact that Holly had got herself into the position to be kissed _by her_.

Holly pours herself another glass of wine and leans back in her seat, idly watching Tyra lecture her pack about the importance of eyebrow shaping.

This was definitely not how Holly had planned her day. Not at all. This morning Holly's day had been accounted for the same way it is done every day, plotted out during her short journey to the lab, a mental triage of all she'd need to do in her day. It has to be that way or she'd never get everything done. And today's agenda had been all about checking on the results of yesterday's tests, running some more blood samples, examining a head wound and then getting down to marking up the paper lying in front of her right now. Somehow it had turned into being all about Gail Peck.

But that seemed to be how it was with Gail. She was more like an assault rifle than a human person: loaded and ready to attack at any moment. And Holly had definitely not seen Gail coming. One day there had simply been no Gail and then the next day there she was, a mean, beautiful ice maiden of the stuff evil prom queens are made of, delivered in the form of a policewoman making charming trouble in her lab all day.

It was quite a while before Holly realised that the insults being hurled at her all day was actually Gail Peck's way of making friends. And there was no denying that friendship had come easily to them, or that they made fabulous banter together. The Holly and Gail show was fun and easy and Holly was happy to slip into its comfortable fit.

While she was enjoying the friendship, Holly could admit to herself that she wasn't completely inured to Gail's beauty. Holly was self-aware enough to at least examine the notion that she was attracted to Gail. Of course she had. Even if Gail wasn't the type of girl Holly would ever date, Gail was deeply, significantly hot, and they both knew it. And she had been sure Gail harboured at least some sort of curiosity about whether Holly was interested in her. A girl as good looking as Gail is used to people liking her.

Like a good scientist, Holly had tried to apply logic and rationality to her feelings about Gail. She knew Gail was hot. She knew Gail was fun- in a kind of be-prepared-to-duck at any moment way. She knew Gail was hilarious. And she knew Gail wanted to be around her. But she also knew she should not misread any signs. She was well aware that Gail was going through something that Holly hadn't quite figured out yet, and that whatever it is was is playing some part in why Gail was being drawn to spend time with her.

As she considered the question of Gail's place in her life, Holly knew she had to be careful. And, of course, like any smart lesbian, Holly had pretty much made it a rule to only make her affections available to other lesbians. At least that became the rule after one seemingly interminable, unrequited crush in her younger years. But Holly was also trying to do new things and meet new people. She needed it. So, in the spirit of change, she had somehow she let this girl walk straight into her life. And Holly did her best not to make too much of this new freidnship and what else it could mean, at first.

Of course that brief kiss in the cloakroom at that wedding had not been the wisest move she'd ever made- at least that's what she thought at the time.

Holly smiles when she thinks of Gail's shocked face- one of the rare times that the girl had been rendered speechless, if only for a second. Holly had chastised herself for that unplanned kiss when she walked away (she thought she had _better_ walk away then), but she just couldn't help herself. She simply felt this sudden, cheeky need to discipline this girl who acted like she could inflict any hurt she liked any time she liked, but who at the same time so clearly signalled she needed a friend.

Most of the time she just let the Gail barbs slide. It was easier that way. But not this time. She couldn't help herself. If Gail was going to call Holly out on her lesbianism - all those jabs about backpacks and fleece (neither of which Holly even liked) - then she was going to show her lesbian. And besides, Gail had looked so incredible that night, even in that ridiculous fur, stolen from the cloakroom where they were hiding, it was hard not to be tempted.

But something had definitely changed with that kiss. In the weeks since, Holly could sense something was shifting. There was an intensity to the speed they were getting to know each other, and to want to spend time together.

Even this morning when she woke up, her thoughts turned immediately to Gail. Not to her date from last night, and not to her work plans for the day. To Gail. It was then that Holly realised that there was a real and definite question mark about something – whatever it was - between them.

What she didn't know was why she told Gail she was "not sure yet" about the potential of her date. That night, before she had even got ready to meet this woman she'd already known that it would probably amount to nothing. She had just agreed to this set-up because, well, how could she say no to a friend who already set it up? And Holly liked meeting new people. It would be fun. But Holly also knew already she didn't have room at this moment for dating.

And she kind of knew the reason was Gail.

So then why did she think letting Gail think there was no potential between them was a good idea last night in the bar, when all Gail had wanted was to rescued from the boredom of Dov's trivia and to know why Holly couldn't come out and play with her? Was Holly trying to protect herself from having to consider that she might have feelings for this combative, straight, hot, mean girl by pretending that there might be something in this date that Holly worked so hard to maintain as friendly, non-committal drinks? Or was she trying to protect Gail from the same kind of confusion she might be having about Holly?

Whatever it was, this morning Holly had decided that in the spirit of honesty she would tell Gail this at some point about the truth of that date. Even if there was nothing between them, it didn't make sense to be lying to someone who was determined to make herself important, somehow, in some way, in Holly's life. Dishonesty is not how Holly operates.

That had been the plan, anyway: to bring it up with Gail someday over a drink somewhere -not spill it out in an desperate moment in a darkened room today.

It was one of the lab assistants who told her about the shooting. They were both shooting the breeze while they waited for notoriously slow Joe to deliver on the samples he'd promised the night before at the entrance to the blood lab. They were talking Toronto traffic when he mentioned that his drive to work this morning had been re-routed on State Street because someone had shot at a cop.

Holly wasn't prepared to feel how she felt when she heard this news, delivered as a random bit of gossip in that flip way the staff at the lab share stories that are rarely ever more or less awful than all the awful things they see and hear every day in this job. Such stories are part of the territory of forensics. Only they get to share these stories from the safe emotional distance of their darkened labs, protected from the actual event. The police they work with every day are rarely so lucky. But then they are not very often shot, either.

So, the gripping sense of fear Holly felt when she heard this tale was because, for the first time, that distance had eroded. As soon as it was mentioned that it was a policewoman, and policewoman from Division 15 no less, her thoughts had immediately leapt to Gail. And it was the thought that something might have happened to Gail that made her lean against the door jamb slightly, to grip her samples a little tighter, to save her from the outward manifestation of the crumbling sensation she felt in her stomach.

She had returned to the lab without her samples, offering a mumbled excuse about forgetting a meeting. As soon as she got to her office she dialled Gail's phone. There was no answer. But there rarely was when she was at work. She quickly made a call to 15, asking for Gail, only to be told she was on the job. Relieved, she dropped her phone down on her desk.

Even with her mind partly at rest, Holly couldn't focus on her work. Holly was not a sit and wait kind of girl. She made it another hour or two but eventually the need for certainty caused her to pick up that blue folder, a reason for making that trip to 15, and head out to her car.

Holly is not a rambler- not outside her own head, anyway. She never has been. Her love for science and medicine and her years of papers and exams and lab reports taught her to be considered, to test every assumption, to plan every argument before presenting it in person or on paper. Holly wasn't a rambler until today, that is.

The plan, of course, had been just to get in there under the ruse of the folder, check on Gail and get out.

It seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do, when her friend was in danger. And the flood of relief she felt when she saw Gail striding down the hallway toward her told her it was the right thing to do. She had wanted to play it cool as she dragged Gail into the room and asked to hear about what had happening, but the combined forces of her very real concerns for Gail's safety and being suddenly faced with the woman she had woken up thinking about this morning and had basically not stopped thinking about all day turned a switch in Holly- a switch that had never been flipped before.

Then came word vomit.

She has no idea how one story turned into another- from the situation with the gunman to her date last night. But she just seemed to start talking, and keep talking, as if this might be the only moment she might ever have to acknowledge this growing sense that the answer to the question about what Gail and Holly meant to each other was up for grabs. Whether she liked it or not, Holly was gripped by the fierce urgency of that moment and of needing to know the answer.

Something she had spent so much time trying to approach logically came to her in the most uncharacteristically illogical moment Holly had had in a long time- probably since her nervous first days of dating.

Really, she was lucky how well it turned out.

It was like she was standing outside her own body, witnessing this person who was so wholly helpless to stem the flow of her own chatter. She saw Gail's attempt to scoff, and then the look of confusion that took its place. The slight creases between her eyebrows seemed to be saying to Holly, _why are you telling me all this?_ But then something seemed to switch in Gail too, and Gail seemed to suddenly understand something that made her reach for Holly.

That was something Holly had not expected to happen today.

And although that kiss had completely thrown her, although she never thought Gail was anywhere near having such definite kinds of feelings for her, Holly tried to play it casually, sending Gail away with a joke smile and a joke.

She had to protect herself. Holly knows this kiss has not made everything certain between them. It has simply answered a question about the nature of their attraction to one another.

There is still the potential for hesitation, for reconsideration. In fact Gail is just the type to back away from her own feelings, Holly thinks. But then, Gail hadn't seemed the type to do what she did today- grabbing a woman and kissing her like she'd been doing it all her life and she'd done that, which pretty much proves Holly has a ways to go before she comes anywhere knowing what to expect from this woman.

But whatever happens from now, that kiss has definitely solidified something between them. It has answered a question. And it has answered it with a yes. Whatever they have clearly both detected might be hanging between them is something indeed. And, whatever it is, it is kind of hot.

Holly's phone vibrates on the bench next to her elbow. She snatches it up.

The message is just one word.

_Alive. _

Holly smiles. No, she had definitely not seen Gail Peck coming.

******Please take a minute to review your thoughts on the story so far when you are done. Feedback is always deeply appreciated and, let's not kid ourselves (Gail Peck wouldn't), highly motivating!**


	3. Chapter 3: Gail

**Please take a minute to review your thoughts on the story so far when you are done. Feedback is always deeply appreciated and, let's not kid ourselves (Gail Peck wouldn't), highly motivating!**

It is hard to find a quiet corner of 15 right now, so Gail heads for the ladies toilets. She checks the room is empty, ducks into the last stall, closes the door behind her and dials Holly's number.

The phone rings and rings until Gail thinks she is going to have to leave a message. Then, finally, Holly picks up.

"Scratch that," she tells Holly.

"Scratch….what, Gail?"

"Me being alive." She leans back, resting her head against the door.

"You sound pretty alive to me."

"I have to stay on for the next shift. We still aren't any closer to finding this shooter guy, Dov's still at the hospital with Chloe, and they need more bodies working on the case."

"Oh," is all Holly says.

"Yep." Gail tilts her head back and looks up at the blazing fluorescent light on the ceiling above. It makes her blink, but it's better than looking at the skanky toilet. "I know exactly what you mean."

There is a pause. Gail just stands there, the phone pressed to her ear, staring at the light.

Eventually, Holly breaks the silence.

"So, are you okay?"

Gail doesn't know why being asked that question makes her feel a little like crying, but it does. Maybe it's the lights. She blinks again and doesn't answer.

"Where are you?" she asks Holly instead. "At the lab?"

"At home. I decided to work from here for the rest of the day."

"Oh right," Gail smiles, "so you could catch up on your reality television while some of us, Holly, actually do some work around here."

"It's a marathon, too," Holly shoots back. "Twenty-fours hours of non-stop Next Top Model. Are you jealous?"

Gail sighs.

"I really actually am, you know."

Holly chuckles. "Okay, in the spirit of fairness, maybe now it is time to tell you what I am really doing. I'm reading a comparative study on subdural hema…."

Gail cuts in before she can stop herself.

"I kissed you in the interview room today."

There are a few seconds of silence before Holly responds,

"Yes you did."

Gail knows she is supposed to say something now, but she doesn't.

She hears Holly clears her throat quietly. "And?"

Gail suddenly wonders if this is the conversation she should be having right now.

"Just saying," she replies, shrugging.

Holly doesn't say a word. Gail pictures her standing there, in her house. Or her apartment. Her whatever. Hell, Gail realises, she doesn't even know where this woman lives. She takes a deep breath and presses her free hand into the wall next to her.

"Okay, and now… and now I have to help figure out how we can find this stupid mad…_asshole_…who wants to kill me and my friends. And then when we figure it out I am probably going to have to go back out there and help hunt him down before he tries to kill another one of us. And even though I'm a policewoman and this kind of crap seems to happen all the time and I should be used to it by now I just want it to stop for a goddam minute so I can just…."

Gail grits her teeth and swallows hard, trying to stop the tears with her sheer force of will.

"Can what?" Holly's voice is almost a whisper.

Gail hears the door of the bathroom slam open and footsteps rush into the stall next to her. The door slams shut. Then there is the sound of clothes rustling and a zipper being dropped. She rolls her eyes.

"Holly?"

"Yeah?"

"I have to go."

She hangs up the phone before Holly can even respond. Even if that person hadn't come in, if Gail is going to get through the rest of this shift she is not sure she can hear Holly say another word. She can't.

She drops her phone back into her pocket and rests her head gently on the door, delaying the inevitability that is this never-ending day. No, Gail Peck is not going to get a goddam minute today.

**Please take a minute to review your thoughts on the story so far when you are done. Feedback is always deeply appreciated and, let's not kid ourselves (Gail Peck wouldn't), highly motivating!**


	4. Chapter 4: Holly

**Please take a minute to review your thoughts on the story so far when you are done. Feedback is always deeply appreciated and, let's not kid ourselves (Gail Peck wouldn't), highly motivating!**

Holly yanks open her door, climbs into the car and slams the door shut behind her. She stares into the darkness of the underground parking lot for a minute and then slaps her hands on the steering wheel in frustration.

She shouldn't have done that. She really, really shouldn't have done that.

She leans forward and rests her chin on the steering wheel, watching a woman loaded with shopping bags run with her child to the exit of the parking lot and out into the brittle cold.

Holly is not usually a selfish person. In fact, she has gotten herself into trouble in relationships before by not being selfish enough. But what she did just now, visiting Gail at the station again, was selfish. And stupid.

She had tried to convince to herself that going down to the station was something she was doing for Gail, Gail who hung up on her when she was so clearly confused and scared and not okay. But Holly knows now she had really gone down there because she needed to see Gail for herself, to reassure herself before Gail went out and did whatever she had to do at work tonight.

If Holly had given herself a minute before making that decision to pick up her keys and drive down to the station - a minute to clearly and carefully think about everything she knew about Gail Peck - she would have waited it out at home until she heard something. Even if it was excruciating to do nothing but sit and pretend to work and worry, that's what she should have done.

What she can't forgive herself for is for forgetting two simple things already she knows about Gail, things that should have informed how she'd behaved just now.

First, she knows this thing is still fragile, but she went ahead and pushed at it anyway. She knew already that there is every chance Gail could still back away from this - whatever it is – that they have turned their relationship into today. She should have known not to pressure Gail. Even if it was Gail that had initiated the kiss, and Gail who called her to express her confusion and her desire, she should have known to give Gail time and the space to decide when and how this should all happen.

And she should have known Gail well enough to know that when Gail bared her feelings to Holly, she was baring them to Holly and Holly only. It didn't take a genius to figure out Gail is not exactly the most demonstrative person, and that she seemed to think showing the world she was a human being with feelings was some egregious display of weakness.

At first, at the station, when Gail had shaken her head at Holly, eyes wide in a vehement _no_, Holly had thought Gail was being weird about being touched by a woman in public. But now, as she sits in the car, she realises that a girl like Gail would have been weird with anyone who marched into her work in front of everyone and expect her to lay her vulnerabilities open to those around her, man _or_ woman.

Holly sighs, closing her eyes and burying her face in her arms on the steering wheel.

And given that Holly is a smart lady and she should have know these things, she had no right to be snippy with Gail for not responding to her affections. And now it is Holly's fault she is sitting here feeling like a giant, awkward, asshole, knowing, she needs to let Gail come to _her_, let her get used to the fact that Holly will be there for her any time, but particularly whenever this shittiest of shitty days ends.

And how Holly wishes it would end.

She stares out through the windscreen into the night. She doesn't want to go home, even though it is getting late. She decides she will go back to work. The lab is always open and she can get to those head wounds she didn't get to today.

Yep, she will go back to the lab and do what she should have done in the first place: put her head down, wait it out, and let Gail reach out for her. If Gail still will, that is.

She reaches into her bag for her keys, digs them out, starts the car and reverses out of the parking lot.

**Please take a minute to review your thoughts on the story so far when you are done. Feedback is always deeply appreciated and, let's not kid ourselves (Gail Peck wouldn't), highly motivating!**


	5. Chapter 5: Gail

Gail Peck likes Oliver Shaw. She really, really does. In fact, if there is anyone at work - aside from her actual friends - that Gail would happily tell people she actually, unabashedly, likes it is Oliver Shaw.

Sure, he is a complete wingnut. But if there is one thing Gail will admit she has learned about herself in the last few years is that she really enjoys the slightly unhinged in people. And she might even like the vulnerable in them too. How else can she explain her weird fondness for people like Oliver and Dov and even Chris who sometimes seem to stumble through the world instead of walking? Who betray their hearts a touch too much to ever be safe from getting hurt? And who do get hurt and keep on doing whatever it is they do anyway?

And now Oliver is trapped somewhere with this gun-wielding psychopath and they have to go and get him out of there with bigger guns and more guns. And Gail can't wait to leave and do whatever she can to help get him out of there even though she generally hates any task that involves a high percentage chance of being shot at.

But what Gail Peck wants, more than feeling safe right now, more than finishing work and finding Holly and making things okay between them, is Oliver back. She wants him back here in 15, bossing them around, playing Dad, refusing to choose favourites, and never, ever, judging. She can even admit to herself she wants him back because he always doles out his Oliver-brand love unsparingly and equally, treating Gail just the same as anyone else even though she can definitely be his most ungrateful daughter sometimes.

It is Oliver she is thinking about as they stride down the hall, fixed in quick lockstep with a whole shift of officers making their way out the front door. It is Oliver she is thinking about, that is, until Chris, trying to hand out some of his Chris-brand advice, starts talking about how she should call Holly. Gail tries to deflect him, but he insists Gail should call Holly, telling Gail he has called, well, it sounds like he has called everyone he has ever met, actually, just in case something happens to her.

"Gail, I'm just saying, _call her_."

She elects to ignore him. Aside from the fact that Chris is getting into some of her business that she is pretty sure she does not want him in- and the fact she is not actually sure how far into her business he actually is –Gail wants him to shut the hell up because he is wrong.

No way is she calling Holly. Not until this is over.

This is one of the reasons why Gail and Chris had never- could never -have worked out (aside from the small problem of her seeming to be kinda gay these days) is that they are such complete opposites. And this is just another way in which they differ. Chris's instinct for self-preservation is to keep his loved ones around him. They are his lifeline and his comfort in these moments that force them to remember that the job they do can be so ridiculously, let's-go-hide in the nearest cupboard, dangerous.

Gail doesn't want comfort. If she is going to get through a task like marching into something she is completely sure is an ambush, the second ambush this stupid job has made her walk into today, Gail needs to know nothing about comfort. In a moment like this, people are a weakness. If she is going to scrounge up enough courage to do something like this, she does not want to hear a single thing that will remind her that there are a million better, more exciting, safer things she could be doing in this moment than deliberately putting her life in danger. That call to Holly earlier, before things had gotten this serious, had nearly made her come undone. She is not doing that again.

Because hearing those things might make her less inclined, less brave about, going out and finding Oliver Shaw.

And Gail Peck really, really likes Oliver Shaw.

******Please take a minute to review your thoughts on the story so far when you are done. Feedback is always deeply appreciated and, let's not kid ourselves (Gail Peck wouldn't), highly motivating!**


	6. Chapter 6: Holly

"Hey, what are you doing here so late?"

Holly jumps slightly and looks up from her computer, blinking. One of her colleagues is leaning in the door of her lab, clearly surprised to see her working at this hour. She smiles at him.

"Just catching up on some things. The day got away."

He doesn't need to know she is here in the lab working to kill time, throwing herself into a new job to try and ignore the fact she hasn't heard a single thing about or from Gail.

"I know what you mean. My whole week has been like that. Anything interesting?"

"Toxicology on an OD."

"Oh. Boring. Sorry."

Holly shrugs and smiles. "It's fine. I don't mind an OD."

"Really? You love the wild life, then, I see. " He taps a hand on the door frame. "Speaking of the wild life, I had better get home. My wife gets mad if I am not home to see the kids before bed. Have fun with your OD."

Holly gives him a wave and goes back straight to her work. She sighs. So many people around here share this guy's attitude about the work, dismissing the 'boring' jobs, and panting for the exciting cases, like a grizzly murder or a bad car accident.

Holly doesn't like ODs that much either, but one thing she taught herself early in her career is never to write off a case off as routine or boring before you even start it. For one, it's bad forensics: if you expect to find nothing, then you are more likely not to look closely enough to see anything that actually _is_ there that might tell a story about a death other than natural causes. You should never forget there is a reason why someone wants to know what exactly happened to a body. That's why it is here in this lab. In Holly's book, you should be open enough to be able to answer that question as thoroughly as possible.

But it is not just bad forensics. Holly thinks it is disrespectful. No matter how routine a job, she always tries to remember that the loss of the person who was inside that body not so long ago is anything but boring or routine to those who loved it. And if she has been given the task of making sure the people grieving for this person have as few unanswered questions about that death to carry with them as possible into the task healing, she is going take that responsibility seriously.

She too used to prefer the exciting cases, the murders, and partial decomps and the suspicious accidents. At least she used to feel like that until, sometime during her forensic fellowship year, she had witnessed an exchange between a visiting doctor and one of her fellow residents. They were examining a patient who had died from heart disease. The doctor, a giant of a man with a shock of white hair and a thick Southern American accent, was guiding the group as they examined the cadaver, making careful records of each step of the process.

One of the residents, a guy Holly knew from back in medical school, started complaining about the huge amount of case notes they had to put together after doing their examination.

"I mean, I understand all the paperwork if it is a violent murder or something, and you need a heap of evidence for a court case," he said. "But a heart attack? I mean, the dude's dead. He had a heart attack. End of story. Why do we need to record every nitty gritty detail of it?"

"Because…" The doctor turned on his heels, examining a scan as he spoke, his accented voice booming as he strode across the room away from them. "The very field of forensics is based on the premise that death is not the end of the human story."

He looked up from the scan and turned back toward the resident.

"Tell me. Why become a forensic pathologist?"

"Well, because it's the only way you can be a doctor and not worry about getting sued for malpractice."

A few of the group snickered. The rest, with Holly, waited to see how this doctor would react.

The doctor placed the scan back up on the rail, turned back towards them, smiled and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Certainly, this is somewhat true, but I think this is a callous and rather cavalier approach to this occupation."

He moved closer to the trolley, looking at the body, as the resident turned pink opposite.

"I find it strange that you would think of a career that assumes the incredible responsibility of speaking for the only type of patient who cannot speak for himself in such a casual way."

The doctor continued as he picked up a scalpel and the resident looked more and more uncomfortable.

"In some sense the dead are the most disadvantaged because they do not have the right or ability to tell their story. Perhaps if you thought of this paperwork that you seem to find so arduous and boring as the patient's only opportunity to give a testimony to the experience of their death, as the closest version to an eyewitness account they will ever get to give, you might not find it quite so onerous."

Needless to say, the resident did not say another word.

For Holly too it was a lesson. After that she tried to never treat any death as mundane, or unworthy of her time. Until that point, forensics had been all about the puzzle. And Holly loved putting together the puzzle. She loved how from a distance everything could look so normal, but up close, when you look at every excruciating detail whole new layers of narrative could emerge.

She thinks of the time, the day they had met, how she had tried to show Gail the damage that had been done to that poor, beaten young man's body repeatedly, over so many years. She remembered Gail's helpless claim that she could only see bones. Holly considers herself lucky that she knows how to look past bones to read the tiny cracks and fissures in what was left of that body, and to be able to give the police the opportunity to solve the crime that caused his death

And, because of what that doctor said so many years ago, she understood her responsibility in being that body's voice, and in being that voice as succinctly and thoroughly as possible. And because of that visiting pathologist, whoever it is whose toxicology reports she is reading now, however mundane, deserves the same treatment and the same opportunity to have their story known. And she will stay here, in the lab, until that is done.

**A great big thank you to Ormerod who shared with me the bones of the malpractice tale, which I borrowed for this story!**

**Please take a minute to review your thoughts on the story so far when you are done. Feedback is always deeply appreciated and, let's not kid ourselves (Gail Peck wouldn't), highly motivating!**


	7. Chapter 7: Gail

Gail is leaning against a fence across the road from the church. She helped see Oliver Shaw to the ambulance and has retreated to the footpath to watch what has been a mob scene of police and ETF and trucks and flashing lights only a few minutes ago dissolve in front of her eyes. All for one man, she thinks. And they hadn't even got him yet.

It is frosty out. She wishes Chris would hurry up. Gail can see her breath frosting up but she can't really feel the cold. That's one thing fear is good for, she thinks, keeping you warm.

"Gail!"

Gail looks up to see Chris running toward her, holding up his phone. He stops at the car, parked across the road from her.

"Swarek's been shot." He shouts across the road at her.

"Wai… wha…what?" She pushes herself off the fence and runs across the road to him.

"I just heard it on the radio inside the church. The gunman _was_ at 15. They got him, but he shot Sam. It's pretty bad."

Gail fights the urge to sit down in the middle of the icy street. She folds her arms around her stomach, and tries to pull some of the cold night air into her lungs. How much more can 15 take today?

"Come on!" Chris runs around, yanks open the driver's seat and gets in.

She nods numbly and staggers around to the other side, climbing into the passenger seat. Chris starts the car, while Gail automatically reaches next to her and switches on the siren. They take off down the street, a blur of light and sound.

"Where?" she asks him through clenched teeth.

"Same place as Chloe."

"No," Gail whispers. "Where was he shot?"

"Oh, stomach, I think they said."

"Why wasn't he wearing a vest?"

"I don't know. I've told you everything I know. He'll be okay, Gail." Chris takes his hand from the steering wheel and squeezes Gail's hand. He keeps a hold of it. "Everything will be okay."

"That's what you said this morning," Gail retorts, trying to blink back tears. They fall anyway. "And look how well that worked out."

Chris doesn't respond. Instead, he accelerates, urging the car along the quiet streets.

"I'm sorry." Gail says quickly, swiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. "That was mean."

"It's okay." Chris squeezes her hand again and then places it back on the wheel as he turns into an intersection.

Gail leans her head back against the headrest and unclips her vest. She thinks about what Chris said in the car this morning. Not about everything being okay –she hadn't been foolish enough to believe that anyway –but about it being dark enough to see the stars. She looks out through the windshield, up at the bright Toronto night sky. Wisdom boy was way wrong. She can't see a single star.

He may have been wrong, she realises they tear into the hospital parking lot, the hospital that now holds two of her friends, but she had been right: they have all had it very, very easy until now.

Chris pulls up at the front of the hospital, braking hard. He jumps out of the car, pushes the door shut and looks back in the window at Gail.

"You coming?"

"I am," Gail tells him. "Just give me one minute."

He looks in at her for a long second and then nods, turns away and strides to the entrance.

Gail watches the stream of her workmates entering the hospital. She will follow them. But first she has to do something. She wipes her eyes again, pulls out her phone and dials the number. The phone rings and rings and rings, before going to messages. She bites her lip, sniffs, and waits for the tone.

"Hey, it's me."

**Please take a minute to review your thoughts on the story so far when you are done. Feedback is always deeply appreciated and, let's not kid ourselves (Gail Peck wouldn't), highly motivating!**


	8. Chapter 8: Holly

The sergeant has the other police gathered around him in the middle of the brightly lit hospital waiting room. From her seat, Holly watches him address his staff. She shakes her head slightly. It is so, so strange that only recently she attended this man's wedding, and here she is now, as two of his people lie in hospital beds, listening as he talks, and they have never even met.

Holly looks for Gail's platinum hair, so easy to spot among all the other, more sombre hairstyles in the cluster of cops. It is such an unstealthy shade. How does Gail ever manage to hide on the job with that hair? Holly wonders idly if detectives and secret police are allowed such bright hair shades.

Gail's head is bowed, like many of the others, as she listens to her sergeant speak. Out of deference or tiredness, Holly doesn't know.

"Some of you have worked double shifts," Holly can hear the sergeant saying over the din of the waiting room. "Some of you have to be back at work in a few hours -for which I am very, very sorry. And _all of you_ need to go home right now and get some rest after today."

A couple of the people look like they are going to object, but he keeps talking.

"We promise we will keep you updated every hour, so keep your phone on. But you need to go. We need you tomorrow and the hospital needs its waiting room back. Go home. Sleep. Refresh. And _thank you_. Great police work today_._"

There is a muttered group response as the crowd dissolves. People turn and head for their jackets and the doors in a reluctant march of bone-weary bodies. Holly leans back against the chair as she watches Gail, deep in a huddle with Chris and her brother Steve. After a moment, Gail moves away from the discussion and comes over to Holly. She leans over, placing her hands on each of Holly's armrests and looks down.

As ever, Holly feels the shock of those ridiculous blue eyes as Gail looks down at her. Whenever their full force hits, Holly has to stop herself from blinking.

"Hey, we have got to go and get Dov out of here. He's in another part of the hospital. It's a long story, but we need to go get him, and then we have to go back to the station for a minute. Will you..." Gail bites her lip, as if wondering whether to ask her question. She continues. "Would you…wait for me? I know it's late… but..."

"Gail." Holly leans slightly forward, rests a hand over one of Gail's and looks up at her. "Don't worry. I'll wait for you. Whatever you need."

Gail closes her eyes for a long second, taking a deep breath, as if she'd like to just stop there and then in this little huddle they have created in the glare of the waiting room and end her day now. Finally, she slowly opens them and smiles a small smile at Holly.

"Thank you." She whispers.

She turns back to the guys and they head down a hallway into the belly of the hospital together.

**This is a first fic. Please take a minute to review your thoughts on the story so far when you are done. Feedback is always deeply appreciated and, let's not kid ourselves (Gail Peck wouldn't), highly motivating!**


	9. Chapter 9: Holly

When Holly arrives at The Penny, the others have just walked in. It is quiet in the bar without the usual crowds of off-duty Division 15 police sloughing off their days with whiskey and beer. Holly joins the small group standing at the bar in a loose, uncommitted circle.

"Hey," she greets them. They all smile and murmur their greetings, friendly, but clearly drained.

Gail is leaning over at the bar trying to flag down a bartender.

Everyone has changed into their regular clothes. Gail is wearing a wide red sweater and jeans, a long coat under her arm. The guys haven't even removed their jackets after leaving the cold outside.

"Gail." Chris calls to her, wrapping his coat tightly around him. "Why are we even here? I just want to go home and lie down for a really long time."

"Yeah, I don't feel much like partying." Steve agrees, swiping a hand across his weary eyes. "And I am supposed to be somewhere."

Gail turns to face them, stern.

"We will be two minutes." She tells them. "And we are absolutely not partying. We are simply going to quickly cleanse ourselves of this horrible, horrible day."

She nods at them, turns back to the bar and waves down the barkeeper.

Steve raises an eyebrow. "What are we doing, exactly? A cleansing? What does that even mean?"

"I don't know, man." Chris shrugs. "She's your sister."

Steve look at Holly.

She raises her hands in the air. "I know nothing about this."

Steve sighs and turns back to watch his sister order from the bartender.

Holly looks at Dov. He hasn't said, or appeared to listen, to a word since she got here. He is simply standing there, his hands jammed in his pockets, staring at the filthy floor.

After a moment, Gail turns and waves them all over. They all shuffle forward slightly.

Gail turns around with a shot glass in her hand. It is full to spilling over with clear liquid.

She holds the glass out to Steve. "You, my darling brother." she smiles up at him, "Tell mom I'm fine."

He takes it, chuckling.

She turns back to the bar and returns with another glass. She holds it up in front of Chris, her face serious, but her eyes smiling.

"For you. Another brother..." she passes him the glass, "…that I didn't ask for. Thank you for today."

Chris grins at her as he takes the glass from her hand.

Gail picks up another and steps over to Dov. "You," she places a hand in the middle of his chest, "will be _okay_. I _promise_."

Dov nods at the floor and takes the glass without meeting her eye.

Gail turns back to the bar, picks up another drink and turns right around to Holly, her back to the others.

"You." She looks up at Holly. Her crystal, cutthroat blue eyes are lined with red from crying. She is still beautiful, though, even in despair. She proffers the shot glass but as Holly reaches for it Gail pulls it out of the way, steps in and kisses her lightly on the lips instead.

"You." She says again, stepping back just as quickly and passing the glass to Holly. Holly smiles at her and takes it.

Gail turns back around, picks up her own glass and holds it in the air.

No one says anything, but they each, even Dov, hold up their glass in silent testament to this crappiest of crappy days.

Then, one by one, they each tip back their glass and drink to its farewell.

Holly winces as the white hot liquid hits her throat. It has been a long time between tequilas. She struggles not to cough as she feels some of it catch slightly in her throat as the rest bolts, burning through her chest and into her belly. They place their glasses on the bar and Gail slaps down a couple of notes for payment.

The ceremony complete, Steve bids them a quick farewell, kisses his sister on the cheek and makes a rapid exit.

Dov zips up his coat. "I have to get back to the hospital." He looks at Chris, then at Gail and back at Chris.

"Dov, don't you want to go home, shower, rest a bit first?" Gail asks him, frowning.

"No, I just want to go back and check on Chloe."

Chris digs into his pocket and pulls out his keys. He looks at Holly.

"Any chance I can get a ride home, Holly?"

"Uh, sure," Holly nods, looking at Gail and back at Chris. "Of course."

Chris holds his keys out to Dov. "Here, take my car."

Dov takes the car keys in his hands and holds them there. Chris takes him by the shoulders.

"Use it as long as you like." He tells his friend. "Then you can do whatever you want. Go home, take a real quick shower, have a sleep or just go back to the hospital. Whatever you need."

Dov just nods, looks at each of them a quick second, as if he can't spare the energy for a thank you, but wants to say it somehow. Then he turns and walks out of the bar.

"Poor Dov." Gail says softly as they watch him disappear into the cold night.

**This is a first fic. Please take a minute to review your thoughts on the story so far when you are done. Feedback is always deeply appreciated and, let's not kid ourselves (Gail Peck wouldn't), highly motivating!**


	10. Chapter 10: Holly

When they pull up to the house, Chris's car isn't there.

"Dov must have gone straight back to the hospital." Chris says, peering out the steamy window. "Couldn't help himself, I guess."

He turns back into the car and smiles at Holly.

"Thank you for the ride."

She smiles back at him. She likes this kind, boyish friend of Gail's. He is sweet. "No problem."

He turns toward the back seat. "And thanks for the front seat," he says to Gail.

Gail doesn't answer, but a pale hand slips around the headrest and squeezes his jacketed shoulder in response. He places his own hand over it for a second and then opens the door and jumps out. He turns, waves goodbye, and jogs toward the house, his face tucked into his jacket collar for warmth.

Holly looks into the rear view mirror as Gail unbuckles her seat belt in back and pushes open the door. She climbs out of the car and shuts it behind her. For a second, Holly thinks she is just going to walk away, but the front door opens and Gail climbs into the passenger seat.

Gail just sits there, her head tipped back against the headrest, without saying a word. Holly doesn't mind. She is happy just to take a minute, to just sit here with Gail, finally, now that they have all the time in the world.

Holly looks out the window and watches a light come on in the house as Chris enters and then disappear a moment later. She watches lights flick on and off as he moves around the house, getting ready for bed. Finally, the whole house falls back into complete darkness.

They sit in this easy quiet together, both staring out onto the empty street. Then, suddenly, Gail speaks.

"You know. I don't even know if you live in a house, or an apartment… or… I don't know, a _log cabin_."

"Sorry? _What_?" Holly asks, startled, looking over at her.

"Well, which is it?" Gail asks, folding her arms over her chest and shooting Holly what can only be described as an accusatory look.

Holly is stunned to silence for a second, still reeling from this, well, it's not a change of subject, exactly, but it's a change of _something._

"You want to know what kind of a building I live in?" she asks slowly, trying to translate Gail into normal human language, to stay on pace with the unpredictable permutations of this girl's thoughts.

"Yes," is all Gail says, turning to fix eyes on the road ahead, pursing her lips slightly. "That's exactly what I want to know, Holly."

"Um, it's neither. Or both." Holly stutters, wondering how she can be feeling like she is in trouble for something as crazy as not having thought to describe her house to Gail before. "It's a townhouse. Well, part of a townhouse."

"Hmmph." Is all Gail says.

Holly raises an eyebrow, wondering where to go from here. Before she can say anything, Gail turns to her again, arms still crossed.

"Bedrooms?"

"You mean, how many bedrooms?" Holly asks.

"Yes, Holly. How many bedrooms?"

"Uh, one,"

Holly shakes her head. Does Gail always get like this whenever she gets in a car? She'd just thought it was the Oxy last time.

Holly decides to just go with it, though, go along for whatever stream-of-consciousness ride it is that Gail is on.

"Separate kitchen and living?"

"No."

"Shower and bath, or just shower?"

"Shower."

"Photos or paintings?"

"Uh, both." Holly sits back in her seat. This is going to go on for a while, she is guessing.

"Cat or dog?"

"Neither."

"Houseplants?"

"One or two."

"Knick knacks?"

"Um," Holly tips her head to the side, picturing her home. "No, not really. Books. Do they count as knick knacks?"

Gail ignores her question.

"Breakfast nook, or bar?"

"Kitchen island, actually" Holly responds, crossing her own arms.

She decides she can play this game too -only better.

"It's fixed in the centre of the kitchen space, about two metres from the east facing kitchen wall. It is wooden, with a walnut top, and two cupboards and three drawers on the kitchen side. The top drawer holds cutlery, the next kitchen towels. Bills and take out menus in the third. There is a small scratch on the side of the bench closest to the front door where I had an accident with a can opener. Oh..." She looks over at Gail. "And did you want to know about the stools?"

"No,' Gail tells her, imperious, refusing to meet her eye. "But I do want to know about any feature walls."

"Feature walls?" Holly blinks. "You mean those walls that are a different colour from the rest of the walls?"

"Yes, Holly, feature walls." Gail screws up her nose. "I dislike them intensely and I want to know if you have them."

"No, I don't have any."

"Good."

Holly smiles and turns toward this delightfully batty blonde in the seat next to her.

"Gail?"

"Yes, Holly?"

"Do you want to see my house?"

"Yes."

Holly looks at her. Gail's eyes don't move from the street outside. Her arms are still crossed tight over her front.

"Gail?"

Yes, Holly."

"Were you wanting...did you...want to see it _now_?"

Gail tilts her head to the side and shrugs. "Maybe." She blinks. "Yes."

Holly tips back her head and chuckles, feeling for the key in the ignition.

"Oh-kay then."

She pulls the cars slowly away from the curb, still chuckling. Even though she has to keep her eyes fixed ahead through the frost-blanketed windshield, she can feel Gail smiling next to her as she pulls on her seat belt.

**This is a first fic. Please take a minute to review your thoughts on the story so far when you are done. Feedback is always deeply appreciated and, let's not kid ourselves (Gail Peck wouldn't), highly motivating!**


	11. Chapter 11: Holly

Holly pushes open the door, steps inside and kicks off her shoes immediately, a habit from childhood. She drops her keys on the walnut bench.

Gail follows suit, kicking off her boots and entering the small space. Holly watches as she pads into the living room in her socks. She looks so much smaller without her boots. Gail begins wandering around, taking in the room, appraising Holly's things. She checks the contents of the bookshelf, stops in front of each frame on the wall to examine whatever is inside. She even runs a hand along the back of the sofa as if feeling for texture.

Holly leaves Gail to it. It doesn't even bother her when Gail takes it upon herself to peek into the rooms leading off her living area, or pick up her papers and read. Holly has nothing, at all, to hide. She also guesses this investigation is less about Gail's police instinct and more about making herself feel less vulnerable to whatever it is that makes her so cagey all the time. She suspects that, just like a domestic cat, Gail needs to sniff a place out, get to know the lay of the land before she can settle in safely.

Instead, Holly give her some time to do whatever she needs to do, and busies herself by clearing up the mess she left on the bench so many hours ago. She rinses her glass from her lunchtime wine, tidies her papers into a pile and throws her take-out container into the recycling.

"Are you hungry?" she calls to Gail. She pulls open a cupboard and inspects its contents, ensuring she can deliver before she promises.

Gail is standing by her desk, reading an old postcard that had been propped on a shelf. She raises her head for a moment and shrugs.

"I'm really not sure." A beep emits from Gail's pocket. She reaches into her jeans and slips her phone out.

Holly watches her read the text, her shoulders hunched over the phone.

"News?" Holly asks softly.

"No change for Chloe. Nothing about Sam."

Gail turns around, still staring at her phone. She eventually looks up. Until this moment, Holly didn't think she could get any paler, but the tiredness has turned her so white, she is ashen.

"You'll hear something soon. Didn't your boss say he'd be in touch?"

Gail nods and sighs, seeming to shrink a little with the release of air. She looks back at her phone and then to Holly.

"I have to be back at work in six hours."

"No" Holly shakes her head, eyes wide. "You _can't_. Ca...can't you take the day off?"

Gail purses her lips and shakes her head. "No, not with all…" She gestures helplessly with her phone. "I'm so tired" she says, rubbing her eyes, "But I feel crawly and weird and I don't know how to..."

"Do you want to go to sleep?" Holly asks her, closing the cupboard door and taking a few steps toward Gail. "You can take my…."

Gail cuts her off with a shake of her head. "No, No thanks. I know I won't sleep because how can I sleep when…?" she holds her phone up and stutters into silence, her face crumpled into a pale blur. She just stands there on the rug as if she is waiting for Holly to provide the answer.

Holly recognises this look of strung-out defenselessness. She saw this look all too often during her residency, when the hospital became her home. There, she was constantly brought into constant proximity with people looking like this: adrift in that jangled state where nerves meet shock meets utter exhaustion, leaving you so tired, but far too wired to do anything about it. These were people whose unanticipated exposure to the sadness, or anger, or guilt or fear that accompanied death or illness was leaving them so debilitated they don't even know to turn off and shut it all down. They can't take any more, but they can't let go either.

This is exactly what Gail needs right now: to shut down. Holly struggles for a moment to think of what to do, but then it hits her.

"I know what you need."

She steps over to the coffee table, picks up the control and switches the television on. The picture crystallises into a familiar scene of anxious girls gathered around a make up table.

She walks over to Gail and puts the control in her hands.

Gail stares dully at it for a moment, then up at the screen and back at Holly.

Holly smiles, touching her hands gently to each side of Gail's face, and telling her, "You just need stare into the void for a while. Turn off. Seriously, it will help."

Gail raises a weary eyebrow and manages a third of a smile. "Forensic pathologist's orders?"

"Yup." Holly tells her, kissing her. "Think of this show as a prescription."

Gail obediently turns toward the television.

Holly returns to the kitchen and the question of food. She pulls out a loaf of bread. Toast is a good kind of noncommittal food, she thinks, and pulls some slices from the packet. Loading the toaster, she looks back at Gail. She is still standing by the desk, her hands by her side, holding her phone, but Holly can see her eyes are tracking the onscreen action. Eventually, she edges closer to the TV, lowers herself onto an armchair, draws her legs up to her chest and wraps her arms around her knees. She points the remote at the television. The volume climbs.

While Holly waits for the kettle to boil and the toast to toast she watches the onscreen events vaguely, but mostly watches Gail, enjoying the opportunity to take her in from a distance. Gail doesn't notice. Her eyes are fixed on the screen, intent on whatever drama is unfolding at this episode's photo shoot, her body now squashed sideways into the welcoming body of the armchair.

Holly tries not to take it personally that Gail has sat down on an armchair by herself. She knows that sometimes, in times like this, being along in company is the ultimate measure of self-care.

Holly is hunting out spreads from the fridge when she hears Gail pipe up from her perch, "You know, if I had to live in that house with those girls, I'd stab myself in the eye."

Holly looks up from the toast she is buttering. Three girls are screaming at each other in a small blue-tiled bathroom. All of them are crying. She grins.

"Actually, maybe I'd just stab _them_," Gail mutters, her deadpan tone barely audible over the racket. "Then live there on my own."

"I'm not sure how well that would work out for you." Holly tells her, pouring boiling water into two large cups and adding herbal tea bags.

"Mmm." Gail responds, shrugging. Her eyes still fixated on the screen.

Holly carries a steaming cup over to Gail and places it gently on the wide arm of the armchair, right in front of Gail's hand. Without even seeming to register, Gail's hands automatically wind around the cup and she moves to face forward on her chair so she can drink more easily, her eyes never leaving the screen. Holly goes back to the kitchen and returns with the toast, trying the same tact as with the tea and placing the plate by the cup. She knows if Gail tells her to eat she won't. Again, she can't help feeling she is treating Gail like a cat. Only this time she is trying to tempt her by nonchalantly placing food out to tempt her out of some dark hole. It works. Gail automatically picks up a piece of toast and begins to chew on it.

Holly quickly steps into her bedroom, yanks off the work shirt she feels like she has worn a for a century and exchanges it for a t-shirt. She comes back into the living area and parks herself on the couch on the closest end to Gail, cradling her own cup of tea. She watches Gail polish off a piece of toast and pick up another without missing a beat, and then turns to the television herself.

There seems to be only four girls left in the model hell house and things are getting tense. She watches them bicker as they dress for a show. As the girls march in high heels along a swaying catwalk, suspended above the audience, another beep emits from Gail. She pulls her phone out, reads from the bright screen and then places it on the other armrest.

"Anything?" Holly asks, turning to her.

Gail shakes her head. "No change." Her voice cracks.

Holly watches a tear gather in Gail's eye as she stares at the television. She doesn't wipe it away. She lets it fall and instead, without turning or looking, she stretches her arm out toward Holly. Holly meets her hand halfway and takes it in hers. She runs a finger gently along the back of Gail's hand.

They sit in silence, their hands suspended in the tender limbo between the couch and the armchair, watching the four girls finish the catwalk task and then sidle out onto the stage for judging panel, dressed in their tasteless best. Tyra begins her end-of-show spiel as the camera pans across the girls' faces. The judges argue for what seems like hours over a set of photos of the models in tribal make up, while the girls hold their ranks, submitting themselves to judgement.

"See that one?" Gail says, jabbing a finger into the air in the direction of the screen. "The ginger one?"

Holly looks at the red-haired girl. She is the shortest of the four and is dressed in a short skirt and paralysing-ly high heels, ostensibly to cover the distance between herself and the other three contestants.

"Mm hmm" She replies.

"She's mean." Gail says, wiping her nose with her sleeve. "I'd stab her first."

Holly can't help laughing.

"Yep," she says, looking over at Gail, squeezing her hand. "You are truly, utterly, deeply insane."

Gail doesn't respond, but Holly sees the crinkle at the side of her eye and the turn of her mouth suggests that Gail knows it too.

Then, suddenly, without looking away from the television or letting go of Holly's hand, Gail gets up from where she is sitting, turns, shuffles over to the coach and sinks into the spot next to Holly. As Gail leans toward her, Holly smells the faint scent of perfume put on so many hours ago. She smiles, lets go of Gail's hand and makes room for her. She yanks a cushion out from her side and places it on her lap.

"Here," she whispers, patting the cushion

Gail obediently curls up beside Holly, resting her head on the cushion and a hand on her knee. Holy draws her arms around the stretch of Gail's back and shoulders and together they watch Tyra dole out her judgements. When the ginger is sent home, Holly hears a muffled, faint "yay" emanate from the cushions. She smiles and smooths a hand over Gail's blonde ponytail. The credits roll, commercials play and, like clockwork, another episode begins.

"Finale time." Holly says, looking down at Gail.

But Gail is fast asleep.

* * *

**This is the last chapter of this It Has Been a Day. Let's wait until we see what the writers do with these two instead of me making it up entirely. I might write some other pieces, but they'll be one-shots or earlier stories.**

**Thanks for reading.**

**And please, a this a first fic, and as it is now complete, I'd love your feedback on the story as a whole.**


	12. Chapter 12

Holly is knee-deep in— well— a kneecap.

And it has been quite a while between kneecaps, that is for sure.

To even conduct this examination, she has had to mentally rewind and excavate everything she ever mentally stored back in college anatomy classes about the knee and has basically never used again. Yep, that is how long has it been since she has had to delve this deeply into what has basically been, until now, in her mind, a hinge— and a hinge that doesn't really come up for much attention in her line of work.

She shakes her head as she works open the flesh around the patella, getting a closer look at the bullet path beyond. Who, she wonders manages to absorb a bullet wound at this absurd, improbable angle, anyway?

This unlucky guy, it turns out.

Of course, it isn't the knee wound that killed this guy. Clearly, it is more likely to have been the ones peppering his rib cage and neck, but the courts will want to know all about all of it. So, in the spirit of being thorough, Holly is taking a crash review course in knee anatomy 101.

Anyway, she'd much rather be staring into the riddle that is the simple knee joint than staring at a computer today. She has a case of that stinging kind of tiredness where her eyeballs feel sandy, like there is an abrasive film scratching the delicate flesh under her eyelids when they move. She has tried to do some work at her desk, finishing reports and comparing test results, but the temptation to lay her cheek down on the keyboard and rest had been too overwhelming and she'd forced herself to find something more stimulating to do.

If Holly is tired, she thinks, Gail must be exhausted. Holly is only this tired because she had stayed up so late trying not to disturb Gail, Gail who was so drained from the intensity of the past few days and had just a few precious hours before she had to return to work again. Although she had been weary herself last night, Holly's tender compassion for the wan, exhausted blonde napping restlessly on her lap had kept her still, watching television until the early hours, not even daring to rouse her for a minute to move her, lest she wake and became dragged back into the events of the night again.

Holly takes up some forceps and delicately begins to pluck at a teeny fragment of bone lodged in some cartilage. Before she can stop herself, she yawns loudly, raising her arm, just above her glove to cover her mouth.

"Is that hygienic?"

Startled by the familiarity of that low, wry tone, Holly looks up. She blinks as she takes in the sudden presence that is Gail. For a second she feels like she has just conjured her up with the power of her thoughts, but no, there she is, clearly exhausted, but present and accounted for, leaning into the doorway of Holly's lab, clutching a coffee cup.

Holly straightens up, recovering from this sudden materialisation of the subject of her thoughts and quips her response.

"Well, hygiene is significantly less of a problem in this job. Not sure I can give him a cold or anything." She smiles at Gail. "Hey."

"Hey." Gail replies faintly, resting her head on the edge of the door.

"What time did you leave this morning?" Holly asks. She had woken in the pre-dawn chill of her living room curled on the couch with no Gail to be found.

"Early. I had to go home, shower, get my other uniform."

"Have you finished work?" Holly wonders what time it is. It is hard to tell in these underground, artificially lit labs. She never knows if she is going to emerge into day or night.

Gail nods.

Holly looks closely at her. She still looks drained. Her usually sharp blue eyes appear grey under the fluorescent light and the force of her weariness. Even her usually sleek ponytail has been replaced with a messy tangle of a bun, a loose strand or two waving over her ear.

"You are going to sleep _so_ well tonight," Holly tells her, smiling.

"Yes." Gail sighs. "Me and my bed have been star-crossed lovers." She picks at the lid of the coffee, yawning.

"You know, not to sound selfish or anything," Holly tells her, "But I wouldn't have been at all upset if that coffee was for me."

"Well," Gail's blinks, "It's not." She lifts the cup to her mouth, taking a sip, staring at Holly as she drinks, her blue eyes flashing her delight in her own particular brand of audacious villainy.

Holly grins and shakes her head. Where did she find this heartless person?

"Buuut," Gail steps fully into the doorway, revealing another coffee, stashed in her other, hidden hand. "This one _might_ be for you. Or it might not." She shrugs.

She pauses for a long moment, then finally steps forward and places it on the tray at the end of the examination table. "Okay, it is."

She notes the body on the table, wrinkles her nose and steps back quickly against the bench by the door.

"Thank you," Holly tells Gail. "You have my undying gratitude." She contemplates ripping off her gloves to drink some, but decides not to. Patience is a virtue. And, anyway, she has gotten used to cold coffee. It can wait until she is done with this knee.

Gail just shrugs off her thanks as if it doesn't mean anything. As if she doesn't care. Like she just had a coffee to spare and was passing. Holly finds it amusing how easily she can slip back into her brittle girl routine, even after doing something so thoughtful.

"So, how is…everything..?" Holly raises her hands, helplessly. She doesn't even know where to start with the questioning of everything bad that is happening at Gail's end.

"I don't know." Gail shrugs, heaving a glum sigh. She shakes her head. "You know, I don't even want to talk about it. Today was….." she looks up at the ceiling, as if trying to find the right, relevant word for something that doesn't even deserve a word to describe it.

"Okay, then. Let's not talk about it." Holly tells her.

"Okay." Gail agrees. "You tell me about something…something else. Something completely unrelated to my day." Gail instructs her.

"Okay, well, this guy," Holly waves a hand over the body in front of her, "managed to take a bullet right in the side of…."

"Ew. Not that." Gail interrupts, frowning.

"Okay, well, he really, really liked cocaine, if his blood tests are anything to go by."

"Something about not dead people." Gail begs, putting down her coffee and hoisting herself up onto the bench. She sits back, legs dangling, her back leaning against the wall.

Holly looks at her. Gail actually looks distressed. She nods. Stupid idea, she realises. Of course Gail needs to hear about something completely unrelated to death or hospitals or drama. She casts her mind back through her day, looking for something completely distanced from any of these things- not exactly an easy task when most of her day has been spent in the morgue. The only time she has away from death and disaster is the few minutes with the newspaper during lunch and her short drive to work. She thinks back to her morning. It seems so far away.

"Well, I saw a puppy today." Holly shrugs. It's weak and she knows it.

"And?"

"Nothing." Holly sighs. "I just saw a puppy, outside my apartment this morning. It was cute. The end."

Gail narrows her eyes slightly. "You know, I'm not really a puppy or kitten kind of girl, Holly."

"Yeah, I know that." Holly sighs. "Neither am I, particularly. But this one _was_ a cute one."

And that is about all she has from her drive to work. She is guessing Gail doesn't want to hear about the traffic on State. She probably knows about it already, anyway. Holly turns her memory to the newspaper she managed five minutes to flick through during her lunch break.

"A guy broke the record for the world's tallest Mohawk in Japan last week."

Gail tilts her head to the side, "Well… I guess it's good to have a hobby," she concedes.

"Oh, and a swarm of jellyfish caused a nuclear reactor to shut down. In Sweden, I think."

Gail raises her eyebrows, frowning. "Wow. Weird. You know, I went to Sweden once," she says, inspecting her fingernails. "When I was nine."

"Really?" Holly gives in. She yanks off her gloves and reaches for her coffee. She takes a long sip. It is tepid but still so, _so_ good. She pulls another pair of gloves out of the dispenser and pulls them on, snapping them against her wrist, and leans back over the body. "What was it like?"

"I don't remember much." Gail shrugs. "Just blonde people. And snow."

"So, you would have felt right at home then, right?"

"Um, I haven't exactly always been blonde you know, Holly" Gail says slowly.

"Oh. Yes. Of course." Holly chuckles at her own stupidity. That shade of blonde most definitely did not come from nature.

She nudges aside a piece of tissue as she spies another teeny bullet fragment and picks up her forceps. Then she remembers something.

"Oh I know. I wanted to tell you this the other night. I was driving to work the other day, and I was stuck at the lights at Victoria and Johnston. You know that awful intersection, where the old paint factory was?"

"Uh huh."

"So, there was this little old lady was waiting at the lights, and when it was her turn to cross, this cop swoops out of nowhere, takes her arm and helps her across the street. He was really young- all new cop swagger or something. Then, they get to the other side, and boy wonder says something to the woman- you can tell he is really pleased with himself and then turns and marches off. Anyway, as he turns and..." Holly starts laughing.

"What?"

"Now this woman was like, your typical snazzy sweater and string of pearls lady you see in that part of town, but when he leaves, this old woman turns to him and flips him the bird, right to his back!"

Gail chuckles. That tiny response makes Holly smile. She loves to make Gail laugh.

"Poor woman," Holly continues, "She probably thought it was a total affront to her dignity, this arrogant little cop thinking she needed help crossing the street Meanwhile this kid is going around all proud in his shiny new uniform thinking he's done his good deed for the day."

"Sounds like something Dov would've done when we first started." Gail smiles, but it quickly turns to a frown. She slaps her hands on her knees. "Speaking of which, I should get going. I need to get to the hospital."

But instead of getting off the bench, she leans back against the wall and shuts her eyes, as if the thought of moving again has suddenly, overwhelmingly, paralysed her.

"I want to be like that one day," she says, without opening her eyes.

"Like what?"

"Like that old lady."

What? A feisty old crank? Oh, don't worry, you will be." Holly grins.

Gail gives her a look.

"Well, I was thinking more independent, mobile, but whatever, Holly."

Gail stays where she is, staring around the room, swinging her legs and looking more peaceful than Holly has seen her in days. This place really does have a strangely calming effect on her, Holly thinks.

She leaves Gail to it and works in silence, gently holding up the patella in one hand and collecting fragments and tracking tissue damage as she works. Underneath, the kneecap there is a hot mess of bullet injury. She doesn't know much about knees; she will be the first to admit, but it doesn't take an orthopaedist to know that if this guy were alive, he wouldn't be walking anywhere any time soon.

"You know, Holly….?" Gail suddenly says, then pauses.

Holly braces herself. She knows this tone. It is Gail's revelation tone. Holly has no idea whether what is to come will be profound or if it will be ridiculous, but she knows she is about to learn something about Gail Peck. She smiles. She can't help it. It amuses her how she is starting to catch onto the beat of this woman's many and myriad quirks.

"What?"

"I'm not…that…easy."

Holly looks up at her. "Uh, you know this is not exactly new information, Gail," she tells her, defusing her taunt with a smile. But Gail is staring down at her palms, which are resting on her lap, her face a study of concentration. She keeps talking.

"I've been told … by … people… that I run kind of hot and cold."

"Okay." Holly wonders where this is going to go now.

"Yesterday, when you came to see me…" she pauses.

"Yes…?" Holly freezes, uncertain of which direction this conversation is going to go from here. Is this going to be the 'I didn't really mean to kiss you in the interview room' conversation? Really? Is Gail about to do this? Holly bites her lip. _This is why you don't date straight girls, Holly, she tells herself_. This is what happens. At least this is what she has heard happens. Maybe Gail is about to tell her she was just having 'a moment', running hot for a second when Holly accidentally acknowledged the tension between them in that interview room? That it was a foolhardy act and Gail wants to take it back. That she has just been using Holly as an emotional crutch to survive the last few days.

Gail continues, still staring at her hands. "I didn't mean to brush you off like that, in front of Chris and my brother…"

Oh, _that_ time. Holly feels a rush of relief. _Stop panicking, Holly_, she chides herself, wishing Gail hadn't got quite so far under her skin already- so far that Holly already feels her own emotional equilibrium starting to balance on the shifting sands of this mercurial woman's inner world.

"Well, I kind of did mean to, but I didn't mean to make you feel…"

"Hey, Gail," Holly raises a hand to stop her, embarrassed by the memory of that foolish visit to 15. "It's totally okay. I shouldn't have done that. You're obviously a private person. And you were at work. I shouldn't have expected you to, you know, drop every…"

Gail sighs and interrupts her.

"See, Holly, that's it. I _haven't_ been a private person." Gail finally looks up, but instead of looking at her, she looks past Holly, to the light hanging over her head. She stares into that distance for a long moment. Finally, she continues.

"See, when I first started out of the Academy at the Division, I started dating someone. And everyone kind of knew about it. And then, when we broke up, everyone knew about it, and everyone was watching us, asking about it. It felt so exposed and, I don't know,_ stupid_. And then, all of a sudden, Nick comes back, and suddenly he's working with me and we're, well you know about Nick. And then suddenly, again, everyone is witnessing my private life fall apart all over again."

"I get it. You're sick of workplace relationships." Holly wonders if this is still Gail calling it— whatever it has been between them— over. They do kind of work together.

Gail sighs. "No, it's not the work thing. Well..." she sighs, "it is, but it is more the fact that I work and live and hang out with these people all the time and we are always in each other's faces, and I don't know, sometimes I have really liked having something, with you, that is just... mine." She shakes her head, clasping her hands together in her lap. "I am sorry, I am really, really bad at this stuff."

"It's okay, I get it." Holly tells her, relieved. So this is not a break up. This is just Gail having feelings, in her usual strange 'I am not good at naming feelings' Gail way. Declaring herself again.

"I mean, that's not the only reason I was so weird. I do just … get _weird_ with this stuff." Gail shrugs. "I don't know why. I can't help it. And then it makes me act weird."

"Are you feeling weird right now?"

"Probably." Gail looks down and shrugs, then smiles coyly in her direction, but not quite at her.

"Okay," Holly rests leans on the edge of the table, crossing her arms over her front. "That's okay. We can work with weird. _And_ with private, and with no PDAs."

For the first time in minutes, Gail meets her eyes. She smiles a small, weary smile at Holly. "Are you _sure_ you want to put up with this?" She asks.

"Annoyingly, I do." Holly says, smiling.

Still staring at her, Gail nods slowly, as if they have come to some sort of handshake agreement and she is mentally reviewing the terms.

Eventually, she pushes herself off the edge of the bench and stands.

"I had better go," she sighs. "I have to take Dov some food or he'll never eat."

Holly nods. "And I better finish this." She waves a hand over the body.

Gail walks slowly over to her. A little bit of swagger has returned to her walk, like she's feeling a little surer of herself. This place really does seem to work for her, thinks Holly. Or maybe, just maybe, it's Holly. In fact she is pretty certain now that it is not this place that placates Gail's ever-present neuroses. It is _her_. Holly purses her lips, to keep herself from breaking into a goofy smile at the gaining of this knowledge.

"What about you?" Gail asks, approaching, her eyes narrowing. "Are you funny about PDAs at work?"

"I don't now," Holly shrugs. "It hasn't really come up before." She grins and throws out the challenge. "Try me."

Gail walks up around the exam table but stops at the end, just short of where Holly has been standing this whole time.

"Those," she points at Holly, "have to go. Put them behind your back."

Holly looks around for a moment, wondering what she is pointing at. Then she realises: Gail is talking about her gloved, stained hands.

"Oh, sure. Got it." She puts down the forceps and places her arms behind her. She wouldn't want them near her either.

Gails steps closer. As she approaches, Holly can see the bags under her eyes and the tired droop of her mouth. She fights the urge to reach out and tuck the straying strand of blonde hair behind Gail's ear. Gail stops right in front of her. Holly has to catch her breath. Gail is so beautiful, even as tired and careworn as she looks today. It is hard to take her all in at once, sometimes.

"See you soon?" Gail asks, placing her hands on either side of Holly's face. Holly nods, smiling. She can't help thinking of that first time Gail kissed her, when she grabbed her so fiercely by her face in this way that it nearly hurt. Gail's touch is different this time- less instinctive and ferocious. More tender.

Gail leans in slowly and kisses her. It is delicate kiss—fragile even —but it is a kiss with an intention Holly can interpret easily. Gail is _in this_.

Gail pulls away and looks at Holly, her face still close. She smiles, a smile so intimately familiar—an acknowledgement of the understanding that has passed between them in this short half hour in a dark lab somewhere— that it makes Holly's heart quicken more than the kiss itself did.

"Very soon." Holly agrees, leaning in to return the kiss, her hands still held awkwardly, reluctantly behind her back. She pulls away and rests her forehead for a moment against Gail's.

"I have _got_ to go." Gail sighs, dropping her hands by her sides.

"You do," Holly whispers, echoing the sigh. "Sleep well, okay?"

Gail pushes gently away from her, nods in response, and spins on her heel and strides away. She turns for a second and takes a look at the body laying out before them.

"That," she jabs a finger in the direction of the place where there was once a knee, "Is _freaking disgusting_."

And then she is gone, leaving Holly looking at the space where she has just been and wondering just how many ways this extraordinary tempest of a girl is going to find to dismantle her life.

* * *

**Please consider leaving a review. And sorry I seem to have lied, saying the chapter before this was the last! This scene unfolded for me and I wanted to write it down. And the moment I wanted to write seemed to have a continuity with this story, so I added it. There may be more.**


	13. Chapter 13: Gail

Gail should be asleep. She _really_ should be asleep.

But she is not. Instead of being facedown on her bed, submitting to the tide of exhaustion washing over her body, she is sitting prone on the couch in the empty house, watching as the last wash of daylight erases itself from the night sky outside the window.

It's not that she doesn't want to go to bed. She really does. Sleep would most definitely be a gift her body would treasure. However, her mind is not so sure it is ready to wake up into the harsh reality that is going to be tomorrow. Part of her is unwilling to relinquish the anaesthetising haze.

Tomorrow, she knows, sleep will bring with clarity and sharpness, meaning the reality that is the last few days will—brutally, no doubt—kick in. And Gail knows that the kind of reality that has been the last couple of days is far, far better experienced in the soft focus of exhaustion. So, just for another little while, she'd like to stay here, safely suspended in numbing exhaustion where she doesn't even possess the basic faculties to think and feel too sharply about everything that has happened at the division and to her friends.

For the first time, she recalls with actual pleasure the comfort of that day after Jerry died, the long afternoon she had spent in the bar with Oliver and Tracy and Noelle after leaving the hospital, waiting for the rest of their division to gather after work. Oliver had created that day in the bar precisely for those of them like him and Traci and Gail who needed it, those who couldn't—or wouldn't— move on from the funeral back into normal life. So, Oliver delayed time just for a day, creating a limbo they could all stay safely suspended in their grief and shock a little longer, to commemorate Jerry and to find solace in the unreality of being in a bar drinking in broad daylight.

So this is why she is sitting on the couch, staring out the window, instead of lying in her bed, something her neurons are screaming for. She is, quite simply, staving off the shock of tomorrow.

Gail feels her phone vibrating in her back pocket. She contemplates ignoring it, but it might be news. Reluctantly, she reaches behind her and pulls it out. "Mother, mother, mother," her phone flashes silently in white text across the screen.

She freezes. Maybe if she stays very still, the lambs will stop screaming.

If Gail could think of the last person on earth she would like to talk to in the world at this delicate, painful time, it would be Elaine Peck. So she doesn't. Instead, she closes her eyes and sits very, very still, the phone squeezed tightly in her hand. And she does not open them until the needy buzz of her silenced phone finally ceases.

Once, a couple of years ago, Chris had shown her a You Tube video. He'd handed her his phone, laughing because he, the giant doofus, thought it was hilarious. It was a clip from a wildlife documentary about a breed of goat who, whenever taking fright, or confronted by possible predators freeze, and fall over, paralysed. Fainting goats, they were called. Gail had smiled when she saw it, but also kind of sympathised. Because that is exactly how she reacts whenever Momma Peck is around.

Gail figured out a long time ago that the best possible response to her mother is to do nothing: to sit very still and wait it out.

Gail places the phone down on the couch next to her, draws her legs up onto the couch and hugs her knees to her chest. What is it about her mother, and the elephantine weight of her expectation that makes Gail react like this?

Sometimes she wishes she were stronger, and that she could push right back at her mother's will. That she could respond with a challenge, to find the courage to ask this woman why she thinks the only way to operate is to barrel through life on a mission, ticking off accomplishments without ever taking a moment to just …. be? If only she had guts enough to point out that her mother doesn't seem to be any happier than anyone else Gail has ever met. Just busier.

But Gail never has. And she probably never will. Instead, she found her coping mechanism in passivity. And, more recently, in unanswered phones and declined dinner invitations.

The hardest part of growing up with her mother was the unrelenting inconsistency. Most of the time her mother was largely missing in action. And Gail might have coped with that. Lots of kids at her school had absentee, career-driven parents. Sure, they were all a bit bitter, but they weren't _broken_. What screwed up Gail was that the long absences were often followed up with— at random downtimes in her mother's career-building— sudden, relentless periods of presence. These stretches of intense mothering were almost harder to take than the neglect.

And if her mother actually did spend any significant time at home, it was usually because something was going wrong at work. And whatever that problem was meant that she was at her irascible best, taking out her insecurities on Gail, chiding her for the perceived failings that Gail was conscious of the fact, even at thirteen and fourteen and fifteen, that they were just as much about her mother as they were about Gail. The only way Gail knew how to cope was to remain as detached as possible, to just let it wash over her.

Of course, it never did completely work. As hard as she worked at this façade of indifference, the expectation heaped on her head at random, intense intervals somehow grew into her own expectations for herself, however hard she tried to fight it. And they were expectations that Gail, or any teenage girl, could never—did never— live up to.

So, by the end of high school Gail found herself playing the part of a wannabe slacker, just to spite her mother, all the time possessing the true, beating heart of an overachiever. She also, of course, found herself to be something of an emotional basket case and a willing loner. None of these were things she had intended for herself in the grand plans of teenage dreaming.

She left school hell bent on a good long period of wilful slackness, a few quick and dirty years of waitressing and partying and listening patiently, but non-responsively as her mother rang and railed and raged daily and told her every single way Gail's life would certainly turn out a complete disaster if she didn't do something with it, if she didn't fill it with purpose.

Gail had tried to maintain this lifestyle, purposefully concentrated on passing the time without intent or desire or ambition, everything her mother despised in a human being, but found in the end she did not have the heart for it.

So, finally, Gail relented, and not just because of her mother's daily demands, but because Gail herself couldn't maintain this masquerade just to get back at her mother. She couldn't do it like Dov, the cop produced by hippies, and rebel entirely. This life she'd forged temporarily had failed to sustain the person inside her who craved action, who loved to make quick decisions and to react. A really great party, a line-of not-so-serious boyfriends and a ten-table section in a restaurant could only fulfil her so much. Whether she liked it or not, the tug of her genes, her family, their tradition of response and action was too innate in her and it no longer was about choice.

The hardest part to swallow of it all was, as much as she wanted to defy the birthright thrust upon her by her family, Gail really did at heart, want to be police.

But while she wants to be police— good police even— what Gail Peck does not want to be, is like her mother.

But sometimes she can feel it, in small, inescapable ways. Every now and then, when she really wants something at work, or needs to extract information from a criminal or witness she feels herself embody her mother, quickly inhabiting her steely demeanour to get what she demands. And she can feel the seduction of the power that kind of behaviour produces. But what Gail can't cope with is that it is a persona— if her mother is anything to go by— you find yourself eventually having to inhabit twenty-four hours a day. And Gail has been dancing dangerously closely to the edge of becoming like that.

Somehow, the end result of Gail both fighting and desiring this persona is the sickening sense she has turned out to be this weird, vacillating creature, veering wildly between being this emotional half-mouse, unable to speak to her own desires, and half-dragon, like her harridan of a creator, snapping and lashing out at those that might— will probably— turn out to disappoint her.

Between the influence of her mother's overbearing yet infectious personality and the constant rejection in those years spent rattling around that huge house, sometimes with her brother, but mostly alone, prickly self-sufficiency has become an instinct for Gail. And even though she feels like it has been the safest place for her for so long, in these last few months she has truly begun to worry for herself at times. Sure, she had meant to become still, to stay safe. But had she really intended to become so brittle? To irreversibly ossify just for the sake of what she is finding to be the fruitless task of trying to make herself as inured to hurt as is humanly possible?

So, even in the last couple of years, with Chris, and then with Nick, when she gathered enough self-awareness to try and conquer her defensive impulse toward self-protection, setbacks were common and she'd always find herself in the same place, instinctively shutting off or lashing out in a bid for self-preservation.

This is also why the candid conversation she made herself have with Holly at the lab today about her complete emotional weirdness has left her feeling, almost childishly proud of herself: for stating her desire, but also, partly, for spelling out the fact she has such trouble maintaining an even emotional keel.

And this is why she will not answer her phone. She does not need her mother scratching at the fragile sheen of reassurance she has been able to create now she may have finally found someone in her life who is patient, willing and invested enough to endure Gail's constant hesitation and paralysing fear of vulnerability, and someone who Gail is willing to reveal those weaknesses to.

The hilarious thing is, Gail thinks, resting her chin on her knee and smiling to herself, is that her mother would probably approve of Holly, with her career and medical degrees and her publications. She'd probably quite like her.

Gail's mother's opinion of the men in her life had been largely, quaintly, based on their 'prospects'. Chris lacked ambition but Elaine had liked Nick— approved of him even. Apparently five years in Afghanistan was proof enough of being a mover and a shaker for her. Nick, on the other hand, had been confounded by Elaine.

"Wow," he had said in the car, shaking his head as they made a hasty retreat back to his house, after a dinner. "Just…wow. She's…."

He never did finish that sentence.

So, even if Elaine would like Holly, there is no way Gail is letting her mother near the one thing in her life that might actually be infallibly, happy-makingly hers.

Gail yawns and lets go of her legs, pulling herself up slowly from the sofa. It is now completely dark outside, and she can hear the neighbours clanging pots, as they rush a late dinner to the stove. She heads into the kitchen, straight for the fridge. Thinking about her mother demands a drink. She yanks open the door and peers inside. Spying a lone beer in the back of the top shelf behind some rancid take out cartons, she pulls it out and pushes the door shut. The slamming sound echoes through the empty flat as she pads back to the living room and drops back on the couch.

Gail twists open the beer and takes a long mouthful. Her phone vibrates against her leg, announcing a message. She glances at it. It's Holly.

_You had better be asleep._

The thought of Holly gives her stomach a mild jolt of turbulence. She smiles. It has been a long, long time since anyone has made that happen. She likes it.

Before she can take another sip, her phone begins vibrating again and she snatches it up, getting ready to jokingly bawl Holly out for waking her. But it is not Holly. It is her mother calling again. Gail flings the phone across the room, into the armchair under the window. It bounces a few times, lands, and continues to vibrate.

She puts her beer down, stands up and heads straight for her bedroom, unbuttoning her shirt as she walks. The fact that her mother is attack-dialling her is enough of a reason to be finally ready to escape into sleep. Her fear of tomorrow be damned. Tomorrow has nothing on Elaine Peck.

* * *

** Please take a minute to review your thoughts on the story so far when you are done. Feedback is always deeply appreciated and, let's not kid ourselves (Gail Peck wouldn't), highly motivating!**

**I have written three Gail Peck/Rookie Blue fics if you would like to read them:**

**It Has Been ... A Day (eleven chapters, Holly/Gail))**

**One of the Good Ones (one-shot, Holly/Gail)**

**20/20 Vision in Hindsight (one-shot, Gail/Traci)**


	14. Chapter 14: Holly

The bar is filled to brimming with bodies pressed close to each other. Holly can hear the sound of Friday night, of relief and something almost resembling cheer crowding the air. People are psyched even though most of these officers and police people will probably be working over the weekend. She remembers the same feeling from her residency days when she had to work all kinds of crazy hours. It was always a case of so what if you didn't have the day off the next day? You still felt like you had to honour the arrival of the end of the week. It's funny how Fridays seem to do that, she thinks, as she pushes through the crush toward the bar, inciting you to participate even though it is not strictly your party.

She buys a beer, craning her neck to find Gail. She finally spies her platinum ponytail on the other side of the scrum. Holly takes a breath and dives in, ducking and squeezing around the thirsty rabble, protecting her beer with her bag. Eventually, she edges up to the table, where she is sitting at a small corner table with another woman.

"Hi," she greets them, as she is pushed up against the table by a giant man clutching a crowd of pints glasses between his two meaty hands, "It's, uh, cheery in here, tonight."

"As it should be," says the almond-eyed woman, sitting next to Gail, holding up her glass before taking a sip of her beer.

Gail nods enthusiastically as she takes a mouthful of the huge sandwich she is clutching with both hands.

"Agreed!" she chimes through a mouth full of food, releasing her sandwich with one hand to wave at Holly in greeting. Some lettuce and meat falls onto the tabletop. She doesn't even notice. She chews quickly for a long moment and then flicks her hands between the two women.

"Holly, Traci, Traci, Holly."

"Hey," says the woman, smiling a warm smile at Holly.

"Hi." Holly smiles at her and turns to Gail. "You're extraordinarily chipper tonight. Or drunk, maybe?" she adds.

Gail shakes her head. "Two tequila shots and this much beer," Gail holds her finger up to the tide line of her mostly full glass, "Does not a drunk Gail maketh."

She narrows her eyes at Holly. "Can't I just be giddy from a successful day of policing?" She takes another large bite of her sandwich.

"Well yes," Holly concedes, nodding. "I guess you can. What happened today?"

"What happened?" Gail swallows her mouthful and chases it with a slug of her beer. "_What happened_, Traci? You tell her the good news."

"Today," Traci says, jumping into what is clearly the Gail and Traci Show, "We finally caught Mike 'The Pants' Santana, is what happened."

"And…?" Gail prompts her. "Tell her the rest."

"And now that little ratface jerk is going to jail for six months to a year at least."

Gail lifts her beer. Traci does the same, and their glasses meet in a clumsy toast. Gail turns to Holly with her glass still aloft. Holly obediently touches her glass to Gail's, and then Traci's and takes a sip of her beer.

"I am taking it that this is no ordinary arrest, then?" she asks.

"And you would be right, Holly," Gail says, gleefully, taking another bite of her sandwich before tossing the remains into the trash can next to the table and brushing her hands together to remove the crumbs.

"Yes, the detention of Mike Santana brings an end of days, for now, to the most irritating man to ever walk the street." Traci says. "The man is a blight, a menace, a…a…" She struggles for another appropriate descriptor.

"The bane of our very existence," Gail chimes in helpfully.

"Wow." Holly raises her eyebrow. "He sounds awful. So, what did he do?"

"Wrote a bad cheque." Gail says.

"_Again_" adds Traci.

"And this man, a _cheque-bouncer- he _is the bane of your very existence?" Holly wonders what she is missing here.

"Ah, but Holly, it is not so much the crimes he commits, but the other offences he commits every time he is dragged down to the station for another one of his piddling little misdemeanours." says Gail.

"Like not showering. Ever," Traci says, wrinkling her nose.

"Like questioning every single thing said or done in his presence," adds Gail.

"Like purposely screwing up fingerprinting."

"Like taking his clothes off in the holding cell."

"Like … breathing." Gail finishes the list with what is clearly, given her tone, the worst of his crimes.

"Can I ask a question?" Holly asks.

"Yes you may." Traci tells her.

"Why is he called Mike '_The Pants'_ Santana?"

"You don't want to know." They respond in unison, and then crack up. Holly laughs too. She likes seeing Gail so loose again.

"Yup, there's a special place in hell for Mike Santana." Traci takes a long sip of beer, draining her glass. She stands. "And while it was lovely celebrating this milestone moment with you, Gail, I must go mother my child. If for anything, just to minimise the chance that he turns out like Mike."

She turns to Holly and smiles warmly. "It was really nice to meet you,"

"You too." Holly tells her.

Traci hauls her handbag onto her shoulder, slaps Gail on the back and departs into the crush of bodies.

Gail turns her blue eyes from Traci's departing back to Holly.

"So, how was your day?" she asks, running her finger along the edge of her beer glass.

"Not even remotely as exciting as yours, it seems," Holly says, moving around the table to where Traci was seated. "Unless, of course, testing soil samples is your bag."

Gail screws up her face and shakes her head in response. "Not even close to being my bag."

"You look good," Holly tells her.

Gail screws up her face. "So? I always look good."

"I _mean_ less tired." Holly grins.

Yes, a few nights sleep can do that. I feel…human" Gail says tipping her head to the side, weighing the odds of that being a truthful statement. "Or something."

"Do you have to work tomorrow?"

"Yup," Gail responds, resigned, "7am. Hangover Saturday. Good times."

"A hangover for you, or the customers?" Holly asks.

"Depends." Gail shrugs. "Always them. Sometimes me. Often both. Anyway, it's early yet." Gail finishes off her beer and casts a disinterested eye around the place. "Do you want to go somewhere else for a drink? I am sick of this place."

"Sure," Holly shrugs. She doesn't care what they do. "Let's go."

* * *

Once they are on the road, Holly turns to Gail.

"So, where do you want to go?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Gail says, "Just nowhere to do with work, or with smelly, overly curious, highly arrest-able men."

"So, that means you want me to take you to a gay bar?"

Holly had been joking, but when she sees Gail's eyes widen slightly and her open her mouth and close a couple of times, the tease in her can't help but turn it into a challenge.

"What, are you scared of the big bad lesbians?" She asks, grinning at Gail via the rear vision mirror.

"No," Gail scoffs, rising to the challenge. "Whatever. If you want to go to a gay bar, Holly, we can go to a gay bar."

Holly chuckles. She loves seeing these quicksilver changes in Gail's reactions as she desperately tries to stay in control of every moment, to maintain her dignity at all costs (even if it often ends up being to comic effect). Equally, she loves being privy to the moment when Gail fails spectacularly at doing this; like that time they played baseball together and Gail fell apart. That was actually the moment that sold Gail to her completely, when she saw the comic sweetness that was an un-armoured Gail, allowed to witness the giggling, self-conscious mess who couldn't actually hide a weakness— or a complete lack of hand-eye coordination— for a moment.

So, sometimes, when Gail tries to put on the front, to scoff and macho her way out of things, it brings out the evil in Holly. She can't help it.

"Okay then, let's go to a gay bar," she says, grinning, and making a quick turn at the next exit.

* * *

"I've gotta say, this is not what I pictured," Gail tells her as they stand in the entrance.

"Oh don't worry, I'll take you to the bar you pictured. One day," Holly grins, leading her through the room to a lone empty table. "Baby steps and all."

Even though the idea of this had been to provoke Gail she decided in the car she would take her somewhere pretty tame. She's pretty sure Gail is not quite ready for the seedy, insanity of some of the clubs Holly has been known to spend a Friday or two in her time, nor is she probably ready for some of the more serious, dedicated lesbian bars with their pool tables and butch swagger.

The place she has chosen is relatively relaxed. It is fun enough for a dance floor, but chilled enough that everyone is not in each other's faces. It has a mixed crowd, with a bit of Toronto everything and everyone in the same space. She realises that, aside from hanging out at the Penny, and sucking at baseball, she has very little idea where and how Gail spends her time. She suspects it has not, ever, been at a gay bar. Best not to scare her with some of the extremes to be found in this town.

Besides, she wants to take Gail somewhere where Holly is less likely to run into someone she knows. It is partly selfish, because she just wants to be stay in this new bubble with Gail, but partly because she is not sure Gail is ready to leave the bubble yet either, or to meet her gay friends. That would make this tender new thing between them a thing and a great big gay thing at that. And she is pretty sure Gail hasn't even got to a point in this where she is thinking too consciously about the question of her sexual identity. And that is something no one, Holly thinks, should be rushed into.

They get to the table and drop their coats on the back of their chairs, laying claim over their small piece of territory. Holly goes to buy them drinks, leaving Gail to get used to the place. When she returns, she can tell Gail has been casing the joint.

"I have never been to a gay bar before." Gail tells her, glancing around the room.

"Yeah, I didn't think so." Holly tells her, putting the drinks down.

Gail turns on her. "Why wouldn't you think I have been to a gay bar?" she demands, eyes narrowed. "I have _been places_, Holly," she says haughtily.

"Uh, maybe, Gail," Holly says slowly, teasingly, smiling as she pushes Gail's drink toward her, "it's because you said this place wasn't what you pictured."

"Oh. Yeah." Gail quickly changes the subject. "So, is _everyone_ in here gay?"

"I don't know." Holly shrugs, taking a swig of her beer and preparing her for the imminent barrage of questions.

"I mean, no one looks that gay," Gail says, gesturing to the room, "Well, except for maybe her." She tilts her head in the direction of a shaven-haired woman in a cowboy shirt.

Holly looks at the woman and smiles. "A 100 footer, we'd call her."

"A what?" Gail asks, frowning.

"Someone you can pick as a lesbian from 100 feet away."

"Oh," Gail doesn't even crack a smile. She's too busy staring at the woman. "I thought there'd be more lesbians, you know, like that."

"I told you I'd take you to the place you pictured another time," Holly grins. "Besides, not all lesbians look like that, you know."

Holly sees a woman she kind of knows and waves, smiling. So much for not knowing anyone. Luckily, Georgia, who is surrounded by a group of her friends, waves back, pointing to the dance floor, as if to say that is where she is headed. Holly smiles and shakes her head.

"Who was that? Gail asks, immediately cagey.

Holly loves that Gail doesn't even bother being subtle or polite about her curiosity. For everything that is complex about Gail, there are things about her that are so very simple.

"Just someone I know." Holly tells her vaguely, knowing that her obscure response will only incite Gail's interest more.

_Why is this girl so, so fun to tease_, she wonders. She waits for the inevitable question. _Any minute_.

"Have you … did you… like, _date her_?"

There it is.

"No Gail. I don't date every woman I know," Holly tells her, smiling as Gail, eyes narrowed, watches Georgia on the dance floor, whooping it up with her friends. "I know her because she owns a café I go to near work."

"Oh." Is all Gail says. She is silent for a moment, before starting up again on her line of interrogation.

"So, how do you even know if a girl is a lesbian or straight, then?" Gail asks, frowning "If you want to pick up?"

"I don't know!" Holly shrugs, laughing. "You just figure it out."

"But how?"

"Well," Holly says helplessly, "How have you known if a gay woman is gay when you've met them?"

"Well usually, they come onto me the minute we meet." Gail shrugs. She takes a sip of her beer and then throws a look sidelong at Holly, frowning. "Strangely…except for you."

"Silly me." Holy answers, smiling at her.

"Don't distract me from getting my answer. " Gail puts her drink down on the table. "_How_ do you know?"

Holy sighs. Gail is relentless.

"Well…" she says, slowly, "we have this signal."

"Really?" Gail raises her eyebrows, leaning forward. "What kind of signal?"

"Gail, I'm joking!" Holly laughs, sitting back in her chair.

"Oh," Gail says, sitting back in her chair. She almost looks disappointed. She is quiet for a moment as her eyes work around the room.

"Some of the girls in here are really hot," she says after a minute.

Holly wants to laugh again. Not because Gail, who had thought herself straight about a week ago, is eyeing girls, but because she knows Gail is comparing herself to them, thinking of them as competition. Typical.

"I didn't think so many women in a gay bar would be so hot," she adds.

"One, I am going to choose not to be insulted by that." Holly tells her. "Two. Can you please remind me, if we still know each other in six months, to sit you down in front of a little video called 'shit straight girls say'. It'll be a trip down memory lane for you."

She waits for the attack. But there is none. Gail just looks at her, aloof, her nose in the air

"That, Holly, was not very nice." Then suddenly her eyebrows furrow, and she turns toward Holly. "Hang on, what do you mean _if you still know me_ in six months?"

Holly smiles. This girl.

"Of course, if I have my way," Holly tells her, "I will know you in six months. But, remember, you _are_ eyeing of all the 'hot' women in the room. You never know."

"Don't worry. You are hotter than these girls," Gail reassures her, serious, as though Holly were actually worried about it.

Holly chuckles as she watches Gail take in everything that is going on around her, her hand tapping against the table, along to the beat of the music. Holly leaves her to it, and watches two guys talk animatedly at each other at the next table. One has his legs across the other's lap and they are sharing a tall bottle of beer, drinking straight from the bottle. She watches them as they pass it back and forth, trying to guess what they are talking about until she is called back to the table by the sudden sensation of Gail's hand sneaking slowly over her hand and onto her arm. It comes to a rest there, a thumb stroking the skin just above her wrist. Holly turns back toward Gail, one eyebrow raised in a question mark.

"What?" Gail snaps, trying not to smile. "In case you haven't noticed, Holly, I'm in a gay bar. When in Rome and all that." She shrugs and turns away, her hand still on Holly's arm. "Besides, got to keep these bitches away from you." She nods at the bar crowd, who are far too intent on their own Friday nights to pay the slightest attention to either of them.

Holly laughs. She gets the feeling that from now on, there is never going to be a dull moment. _Ever._

Suddenly Gail stands up.

"I," she announces, "am going to dance. "

She leans over the table, plants a kiss on Holly's lips and immediately straightens up again. Before Holly, stunned by Gail's demonstrativeness, can say a word, Gail shoots out,

"And for that straight girl comment… _you_ are not invited!"

She turns on her heels and stalks away.

Holly takes a sip of her beer and pulls off her jacket, watching Gail disappear into the crowd on the dance floor.

_Like hell she is not going to follow her._

* * *

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	15. Chapter 15: Gail

Gail is lying on the sofa watching the last of the day's sun stream through the window. Clouds of dust particles float slowly by above her head, illuminated by the shafts of light beaming down onto the rug and diving languidly in a seemingly endless free fall toward the floor. It would actually be kind of pretty if someone—Steve—hadn't told Gail once that dust is made up of something like sixty per cent of human skin particles. She screws up her nose. Little particles of herself are floating through the air above her. _Ew_. And parts of Chris. And Dov. And Denise, and Christian and everybody who has ever been here. And she is probably breathing them in- including herself_._ Gross. Does that count as cannibalism, she wonders?

She picks up her phone, which has been lying attentively at her side and checks it again. Nothing. She sighs loudly, sending some of those same dust particles in reverse, shooting in a swirling frenzy backwards through that same stream of light.

_I'll text when I am on my way_, she had said.

She should be on her way.

Gail really hates waiting.

Finally, the doorbell rings, breaking the silence that has dominated the empty flat throughout the hours she has been laying here enjoying the nothingness of an afternoon off. Not even the neighbours have been around, creating their usual cacophony of banging cupboard doors, running feet, and shouts from room to room.

Gail swings her legs off the sofa and pads over to the door, opening it. There, on the other side of the screen door is Holly. And there, in Gail's belly, is that jolt again.

"Hey," she pushes open the screen and stands aside to let Holly in.

"Hey," Holly steps inside, unbuttoning her jacket. She stops in front of Gail and leans in, kissing her lightly on the lips. "Hi," she says again, smiling.

"You scrub up well," Gail tells her, taking in Holly's deep claret blouse, the light silver chain around her neck and the whiff of whatever musky low note fragrance she wears when she is not at work.

"Thanks. Speaking of which," Holly lifts her wrist, glancing at her watch, "I have to be there in twenty minutes. What's up?"

"What's up? Nothing" Gail says, eyes wide.

"Really?" Holly's eyebrows furrow, "I thought from your message that something was wrong?"

"Nope," Gail says, all innocence. "Nothing's up."

Okay, so maybe, just maybe, she made it sound _a little_ like something was.

"Gail! I have to be somewhere!"

"Um … sorry?" Gail offers the apology more as a suggestion than a sentiment.

Holly narrows her eyes, leans in and pokes Gail in the sternum "You," she says, witheringly, shaking her head and sighing. "I'd be ticked off if you weren't so…so…" Holly trails off.

"So what?" Gail asks, biting her lip and smiling.

"Nope," Holly shakes her head more vehemently. "Not finishing that sentence. You do not deserve my compliments."

"Really?" Gail takes Holly by her jacket and pulls her further into the entranceway. "You sure?"

"Positive." Holly leans in and kisses her. "Now I am going to be late."

"So?" Gail asks, wheedling. She knows she can win this one. "Be a little late."

Holly lifts her arm and looks at her wristwatch again.

"Ten minutes, Gail." She warns, pressing her face close. "Ten minutes."

Fifteen minutes later Holly pulls herself off the couch, straightening her blouse. She looks back down at Gail and smiles at her.

"As fun as it has been making out with you on the couch like a teenager before mom gets home, I have _got _to go."

Gail pouts. "Really?" she asks.

"Yes, _really_." Holly tells her, leaning in. "She is one of my dearest, oldest friends and it is her birthday."

"Pffft. " Gail rolls her eyes. "She probably flirted with your girlfriend or read your diary at least once."

"Don't be like that," Holly tells her, holding her face just inches from Gail's.

"Whatever, abandon me," Gail replies, looking away, trying to feign hurt.

Holly grins. "Don't bother, Gail. _Do not_ bother. Your chicanery got me here, but it will not keep me here!"

"My … _what_?" Gail frowns. Sometimes she has no idea what Holly is talking about. She is going to have to pick up a book more often, she realises, to keep up with this woman.

"Never mind," Holly tells her, smiling and pulling at a strand of Gail's loose hair. She stares down at her for a long moment— long enough for Gail to feel almost shy. And Gail never feels shy. Awkward as hell, yes. Shy, no.

"Do you know," Holly says, quietly, still holding the piece of her hair, examining it, "that I have never even seen you with your hair down until now."

"Really?" Gail wrinkles her nose and tries to cast her mind back over every time they have been together in the past few weeks. Yep, Holly is right.

"So?" she minces, batting her eyelashes, "What do you think?"

"Well, hot, of course," Holly tells her. She leans in to kiss her, but stops suddenly, and sits up, frowning. "I _told_ you, no compliments!"

She stands, pulling her jacket down and straightening her necklace. "I, my friend, am leaving, and you can just sit here and stew."

Gail smiles a complacent smile; as though all of a sudden Holly's imminent departure doesn't bother her in the least.

"Okay then," she tells Holly, tranquilly. "See you."

Holly picks up her bag from the coffee table and looks back down at her, shaking her head and grinning, "You are _such_ a brat. Goodbye." She says.

Gail watches Holly walk away from her. Just as she reaches the entryway and is about to open the door, Gail can't help herself. She leaps off the couch, skitters after Holy and grabs her by the waist. She flips her around, presses her hands to her cheeks and kisses her. Holly steps into the kiss and then pulls away, smiling.

"You are, however, a deeply sexy brat." She kisses Gail again, an arm still wrapped tightly around her waist. "I _have_ to go."

Gail nods. "I know."

"I don't want to." Holly tells her, pressing her forehead to Gail's.

"Oh, _I know_," Gail tells her.

Holly rolls her eyes and chuckles. She lets Gail go and opens the door. "I'll see you soon." She steps outside and pulls the door shut behind her.

Gail stands in front of the closed door for a long time— too long. Eventually, she turns around and pads back to the couch, draping herself along its length. She tucks her arms behind her head and turns her eyes back to the window. The sun is completely gone now and there is only dark sky and the outline of trees.

She sighs, stretches, wriggles her toes into the soft little crevice where the sofa cushion meets the arm, and smiles a small, self-satisfied smile. Sure, she's disappointed that Holly's left, but she is happier that she came at all. She cannot believe how weirdly happy that makes her: the simple fact that Gail called Holly, and Holly came to her. It's not like it hasn't happened before. But somehow, each time, it continues to make Gail feel a way she hasn't ever felt before.

The act of asking has never been that easy for Gail either. She remembers that time, back in the hospital, in the bruised bleeding aftermath of the kidnapping and Jerry's death, when she finally got a chance to ask Nick what had happened that night, why he hadn't responded to her messages, the night she finally found herself ready to ask for him in a way she hadn't before.

When he told her he hadn't listened to them, that he had been asleep, she'd felt like she was being battered all over again. Yet, as much as she would have liked to lay a bit of the pain she was feeling on someone else, she knew he did not deserve it.

She knew she could only blame it on herself.

What wounded her most about it was that she knew Nick hadn't been there, available when she emotionally needed him because she had never, ever, given him any cues to think he should do that. He'd probably just thought it was another midnight booty call, a call that he was too tired to fulfil on that particular night.

That night she had made some sort of decision that things would change between them, that she would find a way to bend, to soften to his attentions, rather than reacting to his openness and affection as though it were an insult, or an annoying embarrassment.

That night, after that weirdly illuminating date with that john, she decided that she was going to have to unfurl a little if she is ever going give herself a chance to _be_ in any satisfying sense— and to give herself a chance at finding whatever it is everybody around her seems to be finding so smugly satisfying in their relationships.

But then everything happened and the moment was gone.

And then everything even worse happened after that: Jerry's death, Nick's undercover job, his crush on Andy, her cheating— the entire, crappy lot of it. And somewhere, in the middle of it all she had just escaped back into hiding again.

Even before that, and in the calm times, when things were good between them, she'd sometimes wonder what the hell was wrong with her that when she had finally found someone who, at the time, seemed to want to give her every opportunity to ask him for everything, she still couldn't do it, however much she tried.

Sure, maybe early on, a little bit of her reluctance to connect with Nick had been her fear of him leaving her again, like last time. At twenty-two his sudden departure had hurt like hell and she had been angry and sad and all those things you feel at twenty-two when someone tells you they'd rather be in the middle of a desert in the searing sun in military gear getting shot at than being with you. But Gail knows that to simply blame it on that would have been the easy version of that story.

And sure, it still stung a little when she saw him again, but a lot of that rage had just been for show, just to let him know that she had dignity. She knows her inability to connect with him was about more than that, and that it has a lot more to do with the more and more apparent fact that she seems to be incapable of just openly, obviously needing someone. But she can only conclude— confirmed by everything since that night before the kidnap—that he was the wrong someone, anyway.

But this Holly thing, it feels like it has the potential to be different. Maybe. And she knows that her little ruse to get Holly here was probably unnecessary, that Holly might have come anyway, and that it was a fallback to old Gail habits of finding ways to avoid simply asking for what she wants. But for now, she just needs to know that if she calls, Holly will come. The rest, she will work on.

The sound of a key turning in the latch disturbs the early evening quiet. She turns her head in the direction of the door and listens as footsteps tread into the entranceway. The living room light is flicked on. It is only then that she realises she has been lying in complete darkness. She hears footsteps come close. She looks up. There, upside down in her line of vision is Chris, peering down at her.

"Relaxing day off, I see," he says, throwing his kit bag down on the armchair. "Why are you sitting in the dark?

She tilts her head back so she can keep him in sight as he walks away.

"_Thank God_ you're home," she tells him. "I'm hungry. What's for dinner?"

* * *

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	16. Chapter 16: Gail

**(This chapter originally appeared as a one shot piece called '20/20 Vision in Hindsight'. I knew it was something happening in the 'future' of this story, so I decided to put it in when it was finally the right stage of the story, and the right stage in Gail's process of self-examination. Sorry for the repetition, though. I tried to compensate by posting it after a brand new chapter though!)**

Spilling out into the hallway is a dull roar that is the collective hell of many teachers trying to convince many teenagers to sit still shut up and listen and the responding roar that is the collective hell of many teenagers stubbornly refusing to do so.

As they make their way back to the entrance, Gail stares at the prison-green walls and feels an overwhelming sense of relief that she never has to spend longer than a brief visit in one of these places again. This school looks nothing like the one she went to, but it still _feels_ painfully familiar— like claustrophobia and discipline and the interminable struggle of keeping her head above social water that was school days for Gail Peck.

She sniffs the air as she quickens her step. The place smells the same too: like old lunches, new clothes and desperation.

"So, what do you think?"

"Mmm," Gail pushes open the doors and steps into the sunlight. "I'm thinking noodles, or maybe some dumplings? Then a whiskey or three at The Penny."

She stares up into the blue, cloud-spotted sky. "Or is this beer weather, d'you think?"

"No Gail," Traci sighs, pushing past her and trotting down the steps leading to the parking lot "I'm talking about the teacher. Do you think he's involved?"

"Oh. Right. Then hell yes," Gail nods, recalling the cagey eyes and sweaty palms during the brief interview in the faculty lounge just a few minutes earlier. "Dude is _totally_ shifty." She follows Traci out through the lot and onto the street where the cars are parked. "He's involved. We just have to figure out how."

Traci stops at her car, leans against the door and crosses her arms over her chest. "I agree. One of the kids will spill eventually, surely. They're terrified."

"Well, wouldn't you be?" Gail shades her eyes from the bright sun and glances back at the oppressive brick building, "One kid dead and another missing?"

Traci nods. She checks her phone. "Where is Oliver at? He decided to stay in school?"

"He saw a vending machine. With Fritos."

Traci grins and rolls her eyes. "What is it with you two? Are you never not hungry?"

"Nope, never. That's why he's my favourite patrol partner. He believes in the glory of the snack." Gail checks her watch. The day is nearly over. "But I'll come back to 15 with you. We're done and I want to finish my report and get out."

"'Okay." Traci strides around the car to the driver's side. "Then let's go."

Gail climbs into the passenger seat and clips on her belt. Traci takes off down the street, turning on to Main and back towards 15.

Gail rests her head against the back of the seat and sighs, enjoying the weak sun that is streaming through the windscreen. She's feeling good. All she has left of her shift is some paperwork to do back at thestation. Then her day is done. She has plans for a drink after work with Dov and Chris and maybe the girls. Holly is going to join them if she doesn't have to work too late. And the weather doesn't suck today. Things are not too shabby for Gail Peck right now.

"You know," Traci says, pulling up at a stop sign, "I just don't understand how any teacher could ever supply a teenage kid with drugs. It's so, so wrong."

Gail shrugs. She has given up trying to understand why people do the things they do. Traci though, can be so earnest and mother-y sometimes. She still seems to think everybody is just going along, trying to be good and just happening to get sidetracked sometimes.

"Of course it's _wrong_," Gail says, looking in the side mirror and re-buttoning her collar, "but it doesn't surprise me. People pull this kind of crazy corrupt crap all the time- even supposedly good people. The only thing I am surprised by is that you're surprised by it still."

"I know," Traci sighs, "I just can't imagine any of _my_ teachers from back in school even taking drugs, let along supplying them."

"Yeah, teachers weren't that cool in our day," Gail smiles, waiting for the inevitable.

"Cool?" Traci spits. "Gail, you cannot be…"

And there it is. Gail laughs, throwing her hands up, as if to fend Traci off.

"I'm _kidding_. Don't get all righteous!"

"Well it is kind of hard to tell with you and your, uh, loose moral code, sometimes." Traci says, speeding up a little to catch a green light.

"Loose?" Gail raises an eyebrow and glares at Traci through the rear view mirror. "Who are you calling loose?"

"Uh, who was it who said just last week —within earshot of a sixteen-year-old girl I might add— that shoplifting lipstick from the drugstore was acceptable if your parents don't supply you with pocket money?"

Gail folds her arms across her chest, "I did not say it was acceptable! I said it was kind of _understandable_."

"Same difference."

"Is not." Gail decides to change the subject. It doesn't always pay to fight Traci, she has learned, mostly because Traci likes to win an argument just as much as Gail does. "You know, a teacher at my school had to leave after she was spotted during a drug raid at a club."

"Really?"

"Yup. They did this huge raid at this place on State street. It was all over the television and some of the kids picked her in the crowd on the news."

"What happened?"

"It turned out she wasn't involved, or caught with anything. She was just there that night, but a bunch of the parents still howled about it and she left. I don't actually know if she was fired or she quit."

"That's kind of harsh, I guess."

"Uh huh." Gail nods.

The teacher had barely been there at Gail's school a term before she was forced out. The woman can't have been much older than Gail is now, although she had seemed so much older and sophisticated at the time. Gail remembers her arrival vividly. She had returned to her senior year from a brief holiday in France with her family. Paris had been beautiful but the family time had been hell. Her parents had fought at the Eiffel tower over who'd forgotten the guidebook and her brother had sprained his ankle tripping over a drain and had to sit still for a week, meaning they didn't go to south like they had planned. When she arrived back in French class she had been surprised to find a young Quebecois with an actual haircut and some seriously good taste in clothes at the front of the classroom in place of the ancient, hirsute crone who had been running the show for the last three years.

For the first time, French class was actually fun and kind interesting, now it was run by this woman who had lived in Paris, and told them stories about backpacking along the French coast between college semesters and who actually watched good French films and listened to French music. She had been impressed by Gail's recent visit to Paris and Rouen and by her newly improved accent and vocabulary. Loving the attention, Gail worked harder at that class than she had at any for a long time. She'd even, kind of awkwardly, asked for recommendations for films she could watch that would help her improve her listening after class a few times.

Gail stares blindly out into the traffic, recalling how dejected she had been after the fiasco of a PTA meeting, and the announcement a few days later that her favourite teacher had left. There went the one sophisticated, cool adult in the entire school— in Gail's life at all. Gail had been seriously pissed about it for weeks. Like, cranky, don't-even-look-at-me Gail Peck pissed.

"Oh. My. God." Gail sits straight up in her seat and claps a hand to her mouth, eyes wide.

"What?" Traci applies a foot hurriedly to the brakes, "What Gail?"

"Nothing. Gail says quickly, more high-pitched than intended. "Never mind."

She shakes her head, blinking.

_Of course_. All that time at the start of senior year, all that time she was dating Dave Durane, failing maths, perfecting the art of eyeliner and bitching in the toilets like a normal heterosexual teenage girl, she had been harbouring a great big, lesbian, lady-loving crush on this French teacher. And Gail hadn't had the slightest idea.

"_No way_," she whispers. What did her father used to call this sudden clarity? That's right. 20/20 vision in hindsight.

"What is up with you, Gail?" Traci asks, frowning. "You are one special can of crazy today."

Gail ignores her.

Was this gay thing not that new? How many times has she had a crush on a woman and not realised it? She sighs. Is she now going to have to re-examine every single friendship or relationship she has ever had for closet-y love feels?

Gail has really only had ever had one really, really long-term close female friend. Beth James. She had been pretty sad when Beth moved to the States halfway through high school, but she was pretty sure that was just because she was losing the one girl in her grade who wasn't a moron, and who she could actually talk to, not because she was in love with her or anything.

But there are other, later, encounters that might warrant closer inspection.

There was that impossibly hot girl in that yoga class Gail had tried to go to regularly for about a month last year. But that girl was like dirty, supermodel hot, and everybody who looked at her probably fell for her on the spot.

What about that girl she worked with at the restaurant that summer in Montreal? The older law student from Vancouver with the cherry blossom tattoo that she kind of idolised? Or was it a crush? Gail had loved hanging out with her after work, drinking tequila and dancing all night, flirting with the idiot guys who drank at the bar next door. She can't really remember harbouring any flirty feelings for this woman, but she'd been mostly drunk in those days and her memories are not what could be confidently described as crystal in clarity.

She shakes her head. It's lucky Gail hasn't had that many female friends, she realises, or she could be stuck mentally backtracking for days.

That is, she hasn't until now.

No. No _way_.

Slowly, apprehensively, Gail turns and steals a look at Traci. Oh God, what about Traci? Traci was the first person Gail had _ever_ liked in this job. Though she would never, ever, have let on, Gail had instantly been impressed by her toughness and by her extremely finely-tuned bullshit antenna. It killed her that Traci clearly thought she was a spoilt brat who was not worth knowing at the academy. Later, at 15, Gail had even tried to make friends with her for a minute— after she had been so cool that time, helping Gail prepare for that stupid speech for her mother's award. But when Traci had knocked her back for a lunch date, Gail had been so embarrassed she hadn't talk to her for days.

Did she have a thing for Traci back then?

She looks over at her friend, who is mouthing the words to a song on the radio, oblivious. _No_. She likes Traci. And she's pretty and all, but she is pretty sure does not have the slightest crush on her. In fact, if anything, she just sometimes wishes she could be more like Traci.

"Gail?" Traci says slowly, "Why are you looking at me like I smell bad or something?" She frowns and tentatively lifts a hand from the steering wheel, sniffing under her arm.

"No reason." Gail says quickly, turning and looking back out the window, reassured. Nope. Everything is okay. Traci is her friend and the world is restored to sanity once more.

Traci sighs and shakes her head. "You going to tell me what's going on in that brain of yours, Peck?"

She pulls into the parking area, slides the car into the last spot and turns off the car.

Gail chews her bottom lip and ignores Traci. What about Andy?

Her immediate response: _Ew, no_.

Nope, there is no universe in existence in which she is romantically interested in Robo-Bambi. Relieved, she throws that particular visual right out of her mind.

"What can I say? This has been fun. Not." Traci says, pulling the keys from the ignition.

Gail smiles to herself, relieved. Now she has ruled those two out, she feels a lot better. She cannot be having— or have had— girl crushes on her work friends.

She turns to unclip her seatbelt and freezes.

What about that girl from the academy? The hilarious one with the black hair, the one who'd asked her to meet up for a drink after they graduated. Gail had agreed, but the girl— what was her name— had moved to Ottawa before they got a chance? Had she actually been asking Gail out on a date? Had Gail just assumed she was just being friendly? Was Gail giving off gay vibes even then and not known it?

"Oh this is just too weird." she groans, climbing out of the car, slamming the door and stalking toward the building. That is it. Game over. She will not be thinking about this any more today. She had no idea until this very moment it was possible for a person to give _herself _a bad case of Too Much Information. But somehow, she has managed the impossible.

"What is weird, Gail?" Traci slams her car door closed. "Except for the last ten minutes of your existence, of course?"

Gail turns around, waiting for her friend to catch up.

"You do not want to know, Traci. _I _barely even want to know." She pushes open the door of the building. "All I know is I need a drink. A very big, very long drink."

* * *

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	17. Chapter 17: Gail

Before she even gets close to the door, Gail hears the frustrated growl of a highly irritated person emanating from up ahead. As she strides down the hallway, raising a hand in greeting at the woman on the front desk, and mentally noting the presence of an incredibly miserable-looking blonde in a lab coat planted on the seats in the waiting area, she hears it again. It is then she realises that it sounds suspiciously like Holly. She arrives at the entrance to the lab, stops and leans her shoulder on the doorjamb. She has learned the hard way never to just walk in. You never know what kind of states of human disrepair you'll find laying out on those exam tables and gurneys in this place. Gail can stomach a lot of gross stuff: vomit in her hair, drunken apemen and bloody puddles, but she cannot endure holes in dead bodies. And there seems to be a lot of that going on around here.

There is nothing on the exam table today, not even a bone. She looks around the dim room and spots Holly hunched at her desk, furiously running her computer mouse back and forth across the desk and muttering what sounds like a chain of expletives at the screen in front of her.

"Hey," Gail greets her, adjusting her belt so it doesn't knock against the door.

Holly looks over, frowning, "Oh, hey" she says distractedly, and turns back to the screen and shakes the mouse again. "What are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you, too." Gail shoots back. "Chris is talking to one of the other white coats about that stabbing and I just thought I'd…."

She trails off as she realises Holly is not listening to her. Not at all. Instead, she is alternating between peering into her upturned mouse and holding it up high and shaking it violently. Gail wants to tell her that neither of these techniques ever works, and to believe her because she's tried, but she senses that now is definitely not the time. Holly has one more look inside, turns the mouse back over and slaps it loudly against the desk. Gail jumps slightly.

"Uh, is everything o…?" she begins to ask when a tall teenager with a shaggy shoulder-length red hair edges quickly around her and through the door. He is so skinny he doesn't even touch her. She gets a faint whiff of cheap man deodorant and geek on his lab coat as he slides past.

"Okay, so I talked to the lab." He tells Holly breathlessly, striding over to her.

Holly looks over at him expectantly.

"They said everything is alright at their end," he says, "and that the mix-up must have happened afterwards when she collected them."

"Oh, thank God!" Holly slaps the table. "Then this is slightly more fix-able." She turns back to her computer screen and sighs loudly. "My computer, on the other hand, has now decided to completely freeze and this," she holds up the mouse, wielding it in front of her, "useless piece of crap will not work!"

She turns to the kid, her eyes pleading. "Tell me you know how to fix a frozen computer? Tell me."

"Uh," he leans over to get a glimpse of the screen. "I can probably take a look?" he offers, nervous.

Holly jumps up out of her seat and grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him, not unlike how she was shaking the mouse a second ago. . "You are now, officially, my favourite intern ever!" she tells him.

Even with his back to her, Gail can see the kid's blush reach right around to the back of his ears. He hurriedly sits in the seat and begins tapping at the keyboard. He looks impossibly young to be working in this place, she thinks. He must be some sort of Doogie Howser of forensics.

After a moment he looks up, "Uh, one problem with the samples, though, is I can't really understand her handwriting on the labels. Maybe you want to take a look?"

"What?" Holly darts over to a bench and picks up what looks like a jar in a ziplock bag from a small pile. She pushes her glasses close to her face and holds it close, examining the label. "That's it. I am going to freaking kill her!" Holly growls, shaking the bag. " I mean it, Tom, don't let me anywhere near her for at least twelve hours because she will end up on one of those gurneys, I swear."

Tom ducks slightly, as if he can physically shelter from the violence of her rage. He doesn't say anything. Just nods.

Smart boy, Gail thinks, blinking. She has never seen Holly mad, or even anywhere close to mad before. She can't figure out whether to be alarmed or amused.

"Um, I hate to ask, but is everything okay?" she asks, hesitantly.

Holly places her hands on her hips and shakes her head. "No, not really." She bites her lip and shakes her head before continuing, her voicing rising with each word "First, thanks to some incredible ineptitude on behalf of my useless, lazy, she-intern, who can't lift her eyes from her Iphone long enough to do anything right, a whole lot of work needs to be done all over again— if we can even figure out how to fix the immense mess she's made first." She sighs loudly, her shoulders raising and dropping dramatically as she does. "I've got court hearings and funeral parlours waiting on these results and I can't tell them anything until we fix it. Then my computer does well, whatever it has done" she flaps a hand in the direction of Tom and the frozen computer.

"Oh. That sounds bad." Gail says slowly, for want of a better response. Then, she remembers the miserable girl. Is she this dreaded 'she-intern'?

"Just wondering, does this happen to be connected to that incredibly pathetic-looking person in a lab coat weeping in the hallway?"

"What?" Holly whips around, looking at Gail, then at Tom and then back at Gail. "She's still here?" she asks, through gritted teeth.

Tom just shrugs and leans closer to the screen.

"Blonde thing. Skinny? Stupid pink sneakers?" Gail asks her. "If that's her, yep, she was there a minute ago."

"She had better stay out of my sight!" Holly mutters, grabbing up a pile of the Ziploc bags and then slamming them back down on the bench. "Seriously. I mean it."

Gail takes a small step backwards, raising her eyebrows. She does not recognise this woman. Where is the usual chilled, unflappable Holly? The just smile and ignore it Holly? The so relaxed she doesn't even snark at Gail's baits Holly? Gail does not even recognise this growling shrew. It's kind of spectacular, she has to admit. She almost wishes she could be there to witness the next meeting between Holly and this poor intern.

A voice speaks behind her. "Hey, we've got to go." It is Chris. He leans over Gail's shoulder and waves. "Hey, Holly."

"Hey," Holly says, morosely, flapping a hand at him and turning back to Tom, who is still hunched over the computer screen. "Can you fire an intern, Tom? Can you? Because that is what I want to do. If it means I never, ever have to lay eyes on her useless face again— and that freaking phone, I'd be okay with that!"

"What is going on?" Chris whispers to Gail.

She puts her hand up to halt his words. "We'd better go." She tells him. She takes one— admittedly kind of cautious —step into the room.

"Uh, Holly, we have got to go."

Holly looks up at her, her face blank.

"It will be okay. It _will_" Gail tells her, nodding.

"Computer's working." Tom announces with that miraculous timing only the world's best intern can have. He climbs out of the chair and heads for the bench. "I'm going to work on sorting these out." He picks up the pile of samples and takes them over to another, far bench and sits down, lining them up in front of him.

"See?" Gail tells Holly. "Boy Wonder is on it. It _will_ be fine."

Is it bad that she is kind of enjoying being the calm one, she wonders? Usually it is Gail in a complete and utter snip, and someone else trying to smooth the edges.

Holly just nods and sighs, pushing her glasses back up onto her nose. "Thanks" she mutters.

"I'll speak to you later, okay?" Gail smiles as reassuring a smile as Gail can muster and backs out of the room. "Just don't kill anyone."

They make their way back down the long, neon-lit hallway.

"That was…" Gail mutters, not quite sure how to finish her sentence.

"Terrifying?" Chris finishes her sentence. "I'd hate to be that intern. What did she do?"

"Well," Gail tips her head to the side, as she lifts one hand in a cursory farewell to the woman on the desk. The crying girl has disappeared. "I was going to go with impressive."

Later, as they drive back to 15, Gail feels the vibration of her phone in her pocket. She puts her take-out container on the dash and reaches for it. A text message.

_I'm sorry about today. I was kind of insane._

She quickly taps her response as Chris parks the car at the back of the lot.

_Don't be sorry. It was actually kind of awesome._

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	18. Chapter 18: Holly

There are a few things Holly does not like: peanut butter (basically, it's disgusting), daisies (too obnoxiously cheery), her neighbour on the left-hand side (cigarette smoke in the hallway, Mortal Kombat full volume all night, geeks coming and going at all hours), but there are not many things she outright hates. But if there is one thing that really earns her ire, it is incompetence. And laziness. And arrogance in people who do not deserve to be arrogant. Okay, so maybe there are three things she hates.

Sadly these are all qualities that one of her new interns has managed to show in the few short weeks she has been there.

As she hurriedly looks over Tom's painstakingly meticulous notes on the chart and wonders how the hell he managed to sort out this mess, she speculates over whether it is his fault she landed Amber as an intern. By being given God's gift to forensic pathology interns, was the automatic karmic pay-off landing God's-gift-to-nothing-she-has-discovered-yet, in Amber?

Just yesterday she'd been idly wondering, as she waited for a call back from the court liaison, if she'd prefer two average interns like she often tends to get, or the wildly divergent talents of these two. In the first scenario she'd be without Tom, but in the second, she ends up with a mess like today.

In her experience, no two interns are ever the same, although they all tend to share a few common traits like intelligence, over-eagerness and zero idea of what to expect when they start in an actual forensic pathology department because they have watched too many movies. And over the years she has mostly had a lot of completely competent ones, a few stars like Tom, and only a handful of disappointments. But she has never has an intern who has caused her to seriously wonder how they ever got this far along in a career they are so entirely unsuited for, one that they don't even seem that interested in doing. And she has never, ever seen anyone ever spend so much time at work staring at their phone, to the point where several times already Holly has wanted to snatch it out of her hands and throw it in the nearest hazardous waste bin.

Oh yeah, that is another thing Holly hates.

Her own phone starts ringing on her desk. She debates ignoring it. The less communicating she does, the less worse this day can get, she figures. At the last minute, though, she caves and grabs it up from her desk.

She's glad when she does.

"Hi," she says, relieved.

"I just have one question. Is the intern alive?"

Holly laughs.

"I have to ask, you know." Gail tells her, "Police duty and all."

"Very funny." Holly says, flopping onto her desk chair. "Yes, sadly, she's alive. She spent the rest of the day in the lab, learning how to sort and label samples. Again."

'Are you _still_ at work?"

"Well, it took this long for Tom and I to sort out her mess." Holly says, looking at her watch. She hadn't actually realised how late it is. "I'm pretty much done, though."

"Me too. At least you seem ... _calmer_." Gail says. "You were kind of, well, deranged, earlier."

"I know." Holly sighs. "Sorry about that."

"Don't be sorry." Gail tells her. "I, of all people am not that bothered by random acts of violent rage. I'm police, remember? And kind of cranky myself."

"True." Holly sighs, lifting a leg up and throwing it over the corner of her desk.

"Still, that was a pretty dazzling case of boss temper." Gail continues. "You know, once I was stupid enough to leave my uniform in my car and it got stolen by this girl who _shot someone _while she was wearing it. And still, I don't think Frank got as mad as you were today."

"Really?" Holly asks, "Someone shot someone in your uniform? That's _bad_." She can't imagine Gail screwing up like that. She seems so good at her job.

"Very bad indeed,. Agreed." Gail says.

"Oh God, I know." Holly sighs, resting her head on the back of the chair. "I can't believe that twit made me lose it like that. I _never_ lose it. Well, not _often_. I don't mind if people screw up, you know. I just hate it when they screw up because they are lazy and incompetent and completely disinterested in the work. I just don't get why you would try and do a job you don't even seem to like."

"Well, I was a waitress for ages and I freaking _hated_ it." Gail tells her, clearly trying to change the subject.

Holly chuckles. "Yes, but did you study for years to become a waitress, take endless exams and do a gazillion lab and reports and all-night study sessions before you even got to do the job?"

"Well, no." Gail concedes. "But I changed a lot of kegs and ruined a bunch of shoes. Well hey, at least she-intern didn't kill anyone." She offers, consolingly.

"Hah, hah" Holly replies, yawning and closing her tired eyes. "What a spectacularly crappy day."

"Naw," Gail says, sounding half taunting, half serious. "And what would make this day better?"

"You, of course," Holly tells her, cheeky.

Gail is silent for a moment.

"Really?"

Of course, really." Holly tells her, smiling. "Well, you and dinner," she adds.

"Okay, so you want to go out, or do you want me to procure dinner? Because there is no universe where me cooking would improve anyone's day." Gail tells her. "So tell me which it is."

"Uh, excuse me?" Holly raises her eyebrows. "_Procure _dinner?"

Yes, procure." Gail sighs loudly into the phone. "Chris got a new app. It's called A Word a Day. And procure is his Word of the Day. And as he is my partner, procure is my word of the day too." She sighs again. "He is trying to become more _well-rounded_."

She says the last part of it like it is a dirty word. Only Gail would probably enjoy saying a dirty word more, Holly thinks.

"Well don't you get too well-rounded. It wouldn't suit you."

"This is true." Gail replies. "Now, what can I procure you for dinner? Indian? Pizza? Noodles? Ocean trout?"

"I don't care," Holly tells her, holding the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she begins to remove her lab coat. "Just hurry up and come get me."

"Okay, okay." Gail says. "But only because after today I am a little terrified not to hurry."

She hangs up the phone before Holly can say a word. She grins, yanks her lab coat off the other shoulder, throws it across the back of her chair and beats a hasty retreat out of what has been her own private hell for the day.


	19. Chapter 19:Holly

It was Gail who started it.

Or maybe it is the wine that started it, too— the half or more of a bottle that was supposed to be taken with them to dinner but is instead opened within minutes of their arrival at Holly's flat. Maybe it is the combination of the wine with that particular flush of just-finished-work happiness. Maybe it is Holly's new and improved mood now she has left the lab and this day behind. Or maybe, just maybe it is the fact they finally have a long, unsullied more than ten minutes for each other spread out before them, without the emotional weight of everything that has happened of late bearing down on them, making them careful, and reticent and overly gentle with each other.

Yup, Holly is pretty sure it is a case of good old-fashioned wine tipsy and the knowing they actually have the time and the headspace for the growing desire that is finding them in a repeat performance of their sofa time at Gail's house from a few days ago. Only this time it is infinitely better, and infinitely hotter because Holly doesn't have to be anywhere and Gail doesn't have to be anywhere and no known significant professional personal crises are occurring that can undermine this occasion. That, Holly suspects, is why this moment is already going the way of something far less innocent than that chaste make-out session on Gail's couch a few days ago.

And it was Gail that started it.

Sure, it was Holly who had dropped her bag on the bench the moment they walked inside and turned immediately, demanding the kiss she had been waiting for that whole drive home, the kiss that would erase this day and leave her with just this night and Gail and all the good things that goes with it. She'd felt this distracting need from the moment Gail had turned up to pick her up from the lab. There was something about the sight of Gail out of uniform, with little touches here and there— a stain of lipstick, a sightly fancy slightly unbuttoned shirt, loose combed hair— that showed she'd made an effort, that she was grooming herself just for Holly. Just noticing this provoked Holly's desire even further, and made her impatient on that long drive through Toronto traffic. But later, when she grabbed Holly around the waist and pulled her first against the wall, and then over to the couch and down onto its wide flat cushions next to her, it was Gail that turned it from a vaguely desiring thing into a very definite thing, ripe with all kinds of lustful potential.

Holly realises at this moment that she has been— maybe somewhat unconsciously— taking it slow with Gail until now. It isn't necessarily because she thinks Gail needs some sort of nurturing through this moment, that she will be made timid by this new sexual experience. She suspects Gail is hardly likely to be the type to too shy in bed, however new the partner or the experience. It is largely because Holly believes that what they are slowly starting to have between them deserves its own moment- a pure, unadulterated moment just for them. And that has required some time and distance from the last week's events to allow that to happen.

But for some reason knowing Gail is not the retiring type doesn't stop her being a little surprised, when, as they move deeper into this new physical territory on the couch she feels Gail suddenly shift, wrapping an assertive leg around both of Holly's and swiftly pulling herself up and over until she is sitting astride Holly, never breaking their kiss. Of course, Holly goes right along with it, sliding a hand over the back of Gail's neck, pulling her closer until she can feel the warm stretch of Gail's torso pressed down over her. She slips her other hand around Gail's lower back, inserting her hand into that small space made between her shirt and jeans and running it up along that impossibly smooth stretch of skin, all the way to her upper back. Gail's only reaction is to just kiss her harder, to press herself closer to Holly.

For that reason it is surprising when, just a few minutes later, everything changes. One moment Gail's hand is sliding down her side, running a neat, trailing trajectory with her fingers along Holly's torso from shoulder to waist. Then, a moment later it is teasing at the hem of her shirt, her exploring fingers smoothing into the small space where Holly's shirt and jeans are usually faithfully attached, easing her hands between them to stroke the skin above Holly's hips.

Then, the next minute they are gone.

Suddenly, Holly is wrenched from this moment into another significantly less hot one, one which involves Gail sitting over her, face cast down, her arms dropped helplessly by her side.

So, it is Gail who started it. But it seems it is Gail who cannot finish it.

Holly pulls herself up onto her elbows, looking at Gail, wondering what has provoked this sudden ceasefire.

"I have absolutely no idea what I am doing," Gail stares at Holly, her palms raised in a gesture of frustrated uncertainty. It is as if she has just been asked some impossibly unfair question, like the capital city of some unknown small African nation that hardly anyone knows the name of and no one should expect her to.

Her expression makes Holly want to smile. What makes her want to smile is that Holly immediately recognises what Gail's slightly mutinous air is about—recognised by one high achiever in another high achiever.

However sexually confident Gail is, Holly is fairly certain she has never slept with a woman. Because if she had, she is pretty sure Gail would have shouted that small fact from the rooftops at her at some point in one of her straight girl diatribes. But what Holly is seeing here right now, on Gail's dejected face is only one part— maybe two— parts first-time-sex-with-a-woman timidity. The other part, Holly is fairly, and amusedly certain, is largely made up of sheer frustration and perhaps even mild embarrassment at her own perceived ineptitude— ineptitude in a woman who is not used to feeling a lack of confidence— a lack of command— over moments like these. It's not that Gail is nervous about what they are about to do, Holly realises, it's that she's ticked off at herself for not knowing _how_ to do it. And the endearing charm of this particular, badly timed moment of perfectionism makes Holly want to laugh.

What stops her from doing this is her own memory of her first time sleeping with a woman. That had been awkward and drunken and rushed and nothing Holly would have wanted if it hadn't been the only way she would have scared up the guts to approach a woman in that way for the first time. It had been after a party, back in her late college days. In fact, they were still at the party. The girl, a charismatic, bohemian type with huge brown eyes and a half-inch of blonde hair all over her head, was, it turned out one of the hosts. Eventually, after an hour of talking, perched on the edge of the kitchen bench, they had squirreled themselves away in her room with a purloined half bottle of wine and the mutual understanding that this would end with them in bed together. Despite knowing this, when it all started to happen, Holly remembers that, in her half-drunken state, she had fought the urge to freeze, to call things to a halt for a second, to be able to acknowledge her feelings of inexperience and gaucheness for a minute— the way Gail just did. But both her drunkenness, and her need to seem like it was something she had done before stopped her, leaving her with only a half-memory of a less-than-romantic, less-than-enjoyable scuffle on a dirty futon mattress from that first time.

Now Gail is asking for some of that kind of reassurance Holly had wanted back then, and Holly is going to give it to her. She gently eases herself out from under Gail until she is kneeling on the sofa, looking straight at her.

"You do know what you are doing." Holly says, wrapping her hands behind Gail's head.

Gail just stares down at her hands, which are clutched to her jeaned thighs, just above the knee. Holly moves her hands down to Gail's shoulders, squeezing them gently.

"You do because there is nothing you are actually _supposed_ to be doing."

Gail nods, ever so slightly and Holly pulls her closer and kisses her, inviting her back in. Gail succumbs quickly, wrapping her arms back around Holly's waist as she kisses her in response. This time Holly takes control, pushing Gail gently backwards until she is lying back against the sofa again. Holly slowly climbs over her, leaning down and dropping a kiss first onto the stretch of neck below her chin, and then another just under her ear. She hears Gail's breath hitch slightly as she does. She smiles to herself, and then looks up and smiles at Gail, teasing. She can't help herself.

"Besides, you're just nervous because just don't like the thought you might not be good at something."

"No chance, lady," Gail scoffs, pinching the skin above Holly's hip and grinning up at her. "I am good at _everything_."

There it is again, Holly thinks, another of those quicksilver changes. Back to cocky Gail once more.

Holly takes it as a challenge.

"Yeah, well, we'll see." Holly teases, carefully placing another kiss right in the space where Gail's shirt parts ways over her sternum. "We'll see."

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	20. Chapter 20 Gail

It is one sneaky, cheeky little shaft of sunlight that does it—a beam so small that if you were looking at it, it probably wouldn't bother you much at all. It certainly wouldn't have you reaching for your sunglasses. But when it is directed right at you, teasing at the edges of your sleep right at that very moment when your brain is dancing the thin line between awake and asleep, even a little light can do a lot of damage.

It is so insignificant, though, that Gail doesn't even register what it is that woke her up until she opens her eyes. Well, she opens one eye— a reluctant eye at that. And it is then she detects the tiny culprit. Slinking around a small gap in Holly's wooden window blinds is a small shaft of light, beaming right down on Gail's pillow, rousing her to the surface of a sleep she has only been drifting in shallowly for the last few hours.

She rolls over, away from the source of the light, recalled by the slide of her legs against the sheets to the fact that she is not wearing anything. She starts for a second, unused to the feeling of her bare skin against sheets. Gail rarely sleeps without clothes. Not because she is a prude- as she has often had to insist in the past- but because she is always cold, particularly in her creaky old home where drafts seem to burst into the apartment, rip through tiny gaps and crevices, turning into minor gales before softening back to a breeze as they leave the building.

It is warm at Holly's place though, and she relishes the freedom of lying here in this cosy, heated bubble under the covers, alive to the sensation of bare skin shifting against soft cotton. Something is missing, though. She looks across the bed in search of it. At some point of their reluctant drift toward sleep, they have parted ways. And now Holly is an island, reduced to a long lump and a puddle of dark brown hair right on the other side of the bed where she has finally washed up in her deep sleep.

Gail is envious of her quietude. Last night, even when they had finally allowed each other to rest, spent, they did not sleep much. They were too hyper-aware of each other, too awake to their mutual fascination to sleep peacefully just yet. First it was the distraction of their need to remain in constant physical contact, and later, as they began finally to doze their alertness to each of the other's slightest movement, every flailing limb, each toss and turn, which would rouse them into wakefulness again.

So now Gail is tired.

But really it is the kind of tired that she doesn't mind being awake to feel.

Gail actually likes mornings. She doesn't like getting up in them. But she does, contrary to what most of her previous partners would have thought, like them. In fact sometimes she thinks she might even prefer being awake and knowing she can stay in bed than actually sleeping in. She particularly loves it when she wakes early, so early that she doesn't have to move yet and there is just herself and the quiet and the as-yet unsullied potential of the day. She loves it because everything is where it should be for now— largely because the rest of the world is half asleep and nothing has had the time or the alertness to screw it up or to let it descend into the usual chaos just yet.

As a child, she was always the first to wake up at her house, even if she was the last to rise for the day. When she was little, though, she used to get up before everyone and do a sort of childish role call, padding around the house, putting her head around doors and checking on everyone. It was the one and only time of day she could always be sure of where every one was.

She even had a specific path she would take, starting downstairs with the dog, who would have snuck onto the couch after everyone had gone to bed and who would stay there until Gail's parents got up and shoved him off, chiding. He never reacted to Gail coming in. It was like he too knew and agreed these morning meetings were their little secret. The next stop was at the door of the large bedroom at the back of the house, beyond the kitchen, where the sometimes-housekeeper, sometime-baby-sitter university student often spent the night instead of going back to her apartment. Sometimes she would have sneaked her boyfriend in and Gail would see him jogging across the back lawn in his big khaki jacket, jumping the side fence into the laneway beyond.

The downstairs check complete, Gail would then climb the stairs to her brother's room where he'd inevitably be sleeping on his top bunk among a pile of comics and toys and junk, grinding his teeth through his dreams. Finally, the last stop would be her parents room, where she'd stand for a while, listening to the assuring rhythms of her father's quiet snores before returning to her bed to lie and listen to the sounds of the house slowly wake up. They used to call her lazy bones when she finally surfaced to the dregs of breakfast and the final wake-up call to daily arms, shouted by her mother up the stairs. Little did they know of her little secret watchdog forays into the dawn.

But Gail stopped doing that a long time ago. Now, she prefers just to stay in the delicious comfort of bed and keep the day in abeyance just a little longer. She particularly likes it when she can stay just on the right side of wakefulness, suspended in that delicious half-waking, half- sleeping state where you are just awake enough to know you are still happily ensconced in your bed, but just asleep for your brain to not have kicked into gear yet.

Sadly this morning her consciousness is being obnoxiously alive. Finding herself alerted to the fact that she is naked in Holly's bed with a day stretched out before her by an assaulting beam of sunlight, paired with her awareness that this might mean some new chapter of her life where she will probably regularly and happily return to being naked again in this bed has thrust wakefulness right upon her. And now, there is no going back.

She turns toward Holly. She is still deep in sleep, her rich brown hair a tangle across the pillow. Gail leaves her there for now, rolling onto her back, tucking her hands behind her head and staring out into the dimly lit room. It is a surprisingly big space, given the small size of the apartment, with old wooden floorboards, high white walls and two tall windows. There is little in it but the bed, a dresser, a chair with some clothes thrown across it and a tall plant, yet it is still cosy.

She looks up at an unframed photo pinned to the wall. It is a large print in muted, dated colour framing a man and woman on a bed. The man is half crouched up against the headboard, his elbow slung across his knee, looking away from the camera. The woman is lying on her side across the faded pillows, looking toward the lens but just eliding it with her gaze. They are not touching, and they look strung out or sad or some indefinably troubling something, but there is still something tender in the air between them. It's an oddly intimate portrait, but at the same time, Gail can tell the photo is of people Holly doesn't know. These people are art and Gail doesn't know why, but they make her feel something she can't put her finger on. Something like pity but less definite.

Gail recalls noticing some similar kinds of portraits in Holly's living room the first time she came to the apartment, but she can't quite remember them. If she weren't so sleepy and cosy and naked, she'd consider getting up to have a look at them, curious now. Later, she tells herself. She has plenty of time. She stares at the photo, trying again to gauge the mood she can't quite read.

She wouldn't have figured a science nerd like Holly to be into this kind of photography. But then she has no idea what Holly is into. Scratch that, Gail thinks, smiling ever so slightly to herself. Last night she learned a little of what Holly is in to. But that was in bed and Gail knew she would probably be learning something about that when they finally slept together. Yes, she doesn't mind admitting (to herself), she did learn a lot of valuable information about Holly last night.

It is outside of bed that Gail has less idea what to expect.

She looks over at Holly, who is still deep in sleep. She shifts slightly, however, as if she can feel Gail's gaze on her For the millionth time in the last week, Gail is beset by her feelings of how strange it is that this woman she has barely known for a month can have become so important, so pivotal to Gail's existence. Holly's presence feels so intimately, so right-ly familiar, yet at the same time Gail is positive she has so, so much to learn about this beautiful, warm stranger. This sense that there still has to be so many things she is yet to know, makes Gail uneasy. She hates surprises. She wishes she could do all the knowing now.

Holly moves on the mattress next to her and sighs loudly. Gail turns, detecting the sound of a reluctant surfacing to wakefulness. She bites her lip and watches the waking unfold. She hears a sniff, and another sigh and eventually Holly turns slowly toward her. Gail watches her brown eyes focus as she slowly re- register's Gail's presence in her bed. The moment she comes sufficiently to consciousness she smiles sleepily and wriggles closer to Gail until she is lying up against her. She tucks her head under Gail's chin and wraps an arm around her waist, pressing a kiss against her collarbone.

"Hi." Holly whispers. "Sleep well?"

Gail ignores her and the stirrings felt from the now-familiar press of Holly's naked skin against hers. She has questions.

"What am I going to find out about you?" she asks.

"Huh?" Holly mutters into her neck.

"What are the bad things about you?" Gail insists.

There is a long silence, as Holly works to decode Gail's question. "What do you mean?" Holly asks.

"Well," Gail replies, "You know so many bad things about me. That I'm cranky, and insecure and you know, was raised by wolves, but I don't now anything bad about you."

"Are you forgetting my terrible temper?" Holly murmurs, stroking her hand down the length of Gail's back. "As witnessed only yesterday?"

"Sure," Gail sighs, "but even you said that hardly ever happens." She sighs again, louder. "But that can't be all of it. There has to be _something_. You can't just be all hot and smart and together like some freak of nature. No one is that good" Gail reaches down and yanks down on a strand of Holly's hair. "I mean, you don't even snore."

"Um, ouch. Violence is not necessary" Holly says slowly, taking her hair back from Gail's grasp and burrowing deeper against her chest "And, by the way, wait until I'm drunk," she murmurs. "Then I will most certainly snore. I have it on good authority."

Gail remains silent. She knows she does not yet want to know who that particular authority is.

After a moment Holly pulls her head away from Gail's chest, and looks up at her through one narrowed eye. "How long have you been awake?" she asks, accusingly. "You are being particularly interrogational for this hour of the morning, you know."

"I know," Gail sighs. "I can't help it." She narrows her eyes at Holly, smiling, turning her real, palpable insecurity into a joke.

"Are you like a secret Jersey Shore fan or something?" she asks.

Holly chuckles. "Definitely not."

"Then you're into that sad, weepy chick country music they play on 305?"

Gail isn't so surprised when Holly doesn't even dignify that with an answer, just a blank stare and a raised eyebrow serve as response.

"I know." Gail says, poking Holly in the sternum. "You have a thing for police uniforms and you are only dating me because of it."

"What?" Holly raises her head slightly and smiling. "One. No And two, remember what I do for a living? I see police all day every day. If I had a thing for police uniforms, I think I'd have found a way to take care of it by now, wouldn't you?"

Gail shrugs, undeterred. "Maybe you were once in a cult and you only escaped when your parents sent a detective looking for you. And they found you on a highway in Utah refusing to admit who you were"

"Um, I think you are mixing a couple of films and the Elizabeth Smart kidnapping up there." Holly chuckles, running her hand along Gail's side.

"Oh," Gail shrugs, pouting. She doesn't want to stop, though. This game is fun.

"I know. You write romance novels in your spare time. Really steamy Mills and Boon bodice rippers?"

Holly groans. "Seriously Gail!" She rolls hurriedly over, moving as far as she can get from Gail without actually falling out of bed, and buries her head into her pillow. "Do you ever stop thinking?"

Gail grins and slides over the mattress closer to Holly. She lies on her side, resting on her elbow, and leans in closer.

"Nope," she replies, grinning.

"Well, it's way too early for this torture." Holly tells her, reaching behind her, grabbing Gail's wrist and pulling it around her until Gail's arm is wrapped around her waist. She holds it there for a moment, as if restraining her. Eventually she lets go and yawns. "What time do you have to work?"

"Later. Night shift." Gail smiles, curling her knees into the crook made by Holly's curled body and snuggling down into the delicious recollection that the day is all hers.

"Good. Then go back to sleep," Holly orders her, grasping Gail's arm again.

"Okay," Gail tells her, agreeably. She's done for now. She slides closer, pressing herself along Holly's back, curling her arm in closer against and laying her hand flat along Holly's rib cage.

Holly reaches behind her again and buries her hand in Gail's hair, pulling her head in close to her neck.

Gail smiles, smelling the mildly sweet fragrance of Holly's hair. She leans in, kisses a bare patch of her neck and obediently shuts her eyes.

It will all keep.

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	21. Chapter 21: Holly

**Another chapter. A chapter where Holly tells a story about a horse or two (I guess you'd loosely call this character development, too) and no one has sex or is kidnapped. Sorry.**

* * *

The next day, in one of those lazy, sated moments between bursts of sex and food and stories, Gail brings it up.

She is, for some reason completely unknown to Holly, lying on her back on the floor between the television cabinet and the bedroom door. She has her hands tucked behind her head and her legs stretched up straight above her, resting against the wall in a strangely yogic L shape.

"I have … a question." She announces, tipping her head back toward Holly, who is leaning against her bench, flipping through the newspaper and contemplating whether another coffee would be a good thing or an entirely bad thing.

"Of course you do," Holly tells her, vaguely, wondering if looking at the weather page will be too depressing.

"Am I supposed to say I am gay now?"

Holly lifts her head. Oh. It's that kind of question. She had wondered if or when this would come up. She closes the newspaper, walks over to Gail and slides down the walls until she is sitting next to her legs, facing her.

"Is that something you are worrying about?"

"You know, I don't really even care. It's just..." Gail bites her lips. "I was thinking if that if one of my friends… if Traci or Andy, for example, told me they were dating a woman..." She stops in her tracks, blinking. "My God, imagine Andy dating a woman- as if she doesn't complicate her love life enough without having _double _the choice."

Holly has absolutely no idea what is so weird about this particular idea or this Andy person, so she waits patiently for Gail to remember what she was actually talking about.

"Anyway," Gail continues eventually, inspecting a fingernail and frowning. "I just know if a friend told me she was dating a chick, the first thing I would ask is 'so, what, are you gay now?'" And I have no idea how to answer that."

"So don't." Holly shrugs.

"I just don't want people to be spending that much time wondering about my love life, you know?" Gail bites her lip and looks up at Holly.

"Well, two things there." Holly says, reaching out and sliding her hand under Gail's top where it can rest it on the soft skin of her belly. "One, they probably just want to know about your love life because they are your friends and they care about you. And two, they are probably might ask you a question like that because that's how most people think. Sleeping with woman means lesbian. We're all so in the habit of needing to name _what_ we are."

Gail nods, silent.

"It was easy for me to call myself a lesbian." Holly continues. "I wasn't into men. I was systematically into women. I just had to do some math and knew I could say I was gay it would pretty much be true. But some things are not that concrete. But it's like we always feel like we have to have a name for everything that we are- 'I'm gay, I'm bisexual, I'm a lawyer, I'm a hippy, I'm a type A, I'm a well-adjusted mid..."

"_I_ have never called myself well-adjusted, that's for sure." Gail says.

Holly chuckles. "You know what I mean."

Yeah," Gail sighs, "I know all of this. I do. I know nothing's black and white, blah blah and I don't even care." Gail rolls her eyes. "I'm just…"

"Over-thinking things as usual?"

"Probably." Gail shrugs and stares up at the roof, biting her lip.

"You know," Holly tells her, stroking the curve of her belly. It might just be her favourite part of Gail. "I think you are probably more worried about people asking those questions because you're insular and closed-off and don't want people knowing things about you— not because you are having a sexual identity crisis."

"Probably." Gail says again. Then her eyes narrow. "Jeez, insular. Closed off. You make me sound so _cold_." She looks hurt.

Holly turns around so she is facing the wall too and lies down next to Gail, facing her. She reaches over and stroking her cheek, prompting Gail to turn toward her. "I don't mean to." She tells her. "You're not. Well, not when you don't want to be. You're just … I think you're just private … and cautious with people knowing things about you."

Gail doesn't answer. She just stares past her, clearly mulling over Holly's words, deciding whether to believe the version of herself that Holly has offered.

Holly sighs. Gail really fixates on things too much. Sometimes the constant over-thinking is a good thing, and Holly is pretty certain it is why she's so smart, and so oddly and evilly insightful. But other times it seems like it just feeds her many and myriad insecurities.

She also senses Gail needs to take a break from herself more often than she does at this point in her life, otherwise she is likely to backspin into crazy from another bout of her sometimes obsessive self-doubt.

So she leans in and deflects Gail's most recent tide of thoughts with a kiss and tells her, "Hey, I thought of something, by the way."

"Thought of something what?" Gail asks, her forehead creasing.

"Something bad about me." She replies, taking Gail back to this morning's bizarre conversation.

Gail lifts her head, eyes wide. "Ooh, what?"

Holly grins. That was the easiest distraction ploy, _ever_.

"I hate horses." She announces.

"You … hate … horses?" Gail repeats slowly.

"Yep."

"But what's so bad about that?" Gail asks, frowning. "I hate lots of things."

"Yes," Holly insists. "But people _love_ horses. You know, how they are all beautiful and wild and free and flight over flight and symbolic and never hurt anyone."

"Uh," Gail frowns. "Have you ever head the term 'trampled by horses'?"

"Well, okay," Holly shrugs. Gail is clearly not going to give this to her easily. "But you know what I mean. It's pretty uncool not to like horses. You are supposed to write songs and paint pictures of them. I mean, do _you_ hate them?"

"No," Gail frowns, "But that's because I'm a normal person and horses are awesome."

"Ha. Ha." Holly tells her. "And that's a stretch- you being a normal person, I mean."

And, so" Gail ignores her and returns to the subject. "Have you always hated these poor, innocent creatures?"

"No, only since I was about twelve and I was on camp…"

Gail interrupts before Holly can launch into her story.

"Was this camp by any chance a… science camp?" She raises her eyebrows and awaits Holly's response, smiling as if she already know exactly what it s going to be.

"It may have been." Holly admits, smiling. Gail is going to find out the depths of her geek roots at some point. It might as well be now.

"You adorable nerd." Gail says slowly, wrapping an arm around Holly's waist and grinning.

"Shuddup." Holly tells her, kissing her just to wipe the grin away. "_Anyway_," she continues. "At this camp, there were all these awful outdoor activities as well as labs and stuff- I guess they didn't want to return us home too pasty at the end of summer."

"But I thought you were all sporty?" Gail interrupts again. "With the baseball and the plaid. I thought you'd have loved that stuff."

"Well actually," Holly confesses, "Just to, you know, live the cliché, the baseball kind of timed with the lesbianism."

"There you go- another reason not call myself gay. I do not ever want to play baseball again in my life." Gail says.

"Ah, for one, I think we both know it's not a rule that you _have to play_ or anything," Holly teases, "And well, after seeing you bat, I am pretty sure no one would ever let you on their team."

Gail frowns and looks like she is about to snark. Almost immediately though, her face relaxes as she clearly realises the futility in protesting when they both know Holly is speaking a truth that would most likely be universally acknowledged.

Holly smiles at the point won and continues.

"Anyway," she goes on, "One of the activities on this camp was horse riding. And I had never really been near a horse before. My parents were, well, academic. We didn't even have pets, really, except this one hugely fat cat my mother seemed to love more than my Dad. The outdoorsiest thing we did was going on drives in autumn by the lake. And we certainly didn't go horse riding."

"Oh, well, the Peck family definitely _did_," Gail sighs. "But then I grew up in what was basically a cross between an episode of _Survivor_ and a military camp for wayward teens. I'm lucky we weren't made to wrestle alligators on our weekends."

Holly chuckles. Gail's childhood sounds terrifying every time she mentions it. No wonder Gail is like she is.

"Anyway, so what did this poor, defenceless horse do to you?" Gail teases, tapping Holly on the chest.

"Defenceless?" Holly scoffs, half-joking, half the teensiest bit serious. "It _bit me_."

"It _bit _you?" Gail repeats, incredulous. "Where did it bite you?"

"Right here," Holly tells her, leaning forward and pointing to the back of her left shoulder. "Not really hard or anything. More like a nip. But it hurt and I was traumatised. And there was no freaking way I was getting up on that thing after that."

Gail laughs, leaning her head against Holly's shoulder. Holly smiles, wondering if the joy she gets from the sound of Gail laughing will ever wear off.

Eventually Gail recovers enough to ask, "So, did they make you ride it?"

"They tried." Holly grins, remembering the frustrated camp counsellor, an outdoorsy redhead who seemed to like the horses a hell of a lot more than she liked the kids at camp. "But I refused point blank to get up on that horse or any other horse after that. They made me go to the arts centre instead and paint pine cones every riding session after that."

"That's all you deserve." Gail tells her, poking her in the chest again. "Wimp," she says with relish.

Holly grins. "Don't be mean. I was all of twelve-years-old, a good year from puberty, short, skinny as a rake— knock-me-over-with-the-slightest-breeze science geek skinny, and this great hulking brute of a horse just reached over, right while I was picking some grass for him to eat too, and bit me! You'd have been a little upset, too."

"I'd have been pissed, I guess" Gail admits. "And so now, because of one bad egg, you hate the whole species?"

"Oh, it doesn't end there." Holly tells her, relishing this story now. "So, I pretty much kept my distance after that, until…" She lifts her left leg, reaches up and yanks off her sock, pointing at her big toe. "That."

"What?" Gail turns to look. When she sees what Holly is pointing to she grimaces. "Ew. That is gross."

Holly contemplates her foot and nods. She completely agrees. Her poor big toe is indeed gross. There is a huge crack across the centre of her nail and the skin under the nail is a deep purple-black bruise.

"How did I not notice that before?" Gail asks, looking back at it, clearly half-repulsed and half-fascinated.

"Uh, well," Holly turns and grins at her. "I don't think it's my toes you have been looking at."

"True." Gail smiles a small smile and then looks back at the foot, which Holly is still holding aloft. "Please put that away now."

"Okay," Holly complies. She lets go of her foot, and lies back on the carpet, tucking her hands under her head. She looks toward Gail, sly. "Don't you want to know what happened?"

"So, I am guessing it has something to do with a horse." Gail says slowly.

"Yep." Holly says, smiling. "Stepped on me this time."

"Wow." Gail says, raising her eyebrows. "How did you even get close enough to one to let that happen? I mean…" She turns toward Holly, leaning on an elbow, looking at her with phony eye-wide sympathy, simpering. "…after _all_ you have been through?"

"Well," Holly ignores the Tone. "I wouldn't have, except that I went with some friends to stay in this house put near Niagara last summer and their little girl, who has grown up in inner Toronto all of her life, is super excited about this ancient old horse the neighbours have. The neighbours, this sweet old retired couple offer for her to take a ride on him. Of course Lexa jumps at the chance, and _of course_ it is Aunty Holly who has to take her."

"Aw, _Aunt Holly_" Gail repeats, her honeyed tone genuine this time.

"Then, as soon as the kid gets on the horse, she becomes totally terrified and wants me to, you know, just keep a hand on her. I don't think she realised how high she would be off the ground once she was up on its back. So I am holding her, she's squealing and then the horse gets a fright when the dog runs into the yard and takes a step sideways, instead of walking forward with her. And I'm so busy trying to keep Lexa on the horse that I don't realise my foot is between the horse's hoof and the ground. Well, you can guess the rest." Holly tells her, recalling that speechless, blinding pain she had felt as she tried to keep one hand on Lexa and to yank her foot out from under the horse's hoof with the other. It was excruciating.

"Ouch." Gail winces. "Okay, now I can kind of see how you would be less into horses than the average person."

"Which is why now," Holly tells her, "When I see some image of wild horses running through a field, I don't think of freedom. I'm not all taken with their wildness and beauty. I just think how the are going to hurt me next."

"Uh, maybe _a little_ paranoid, don't you think?"

"Probably," Holly shrugs, playing for drama. "I don't care. They are, I am convinced, out to get me."

Gail grins, telling her. "Okay then, but you do not get to call me insane for at least twenty-four hours now- not after that statement."

"Deal." Holly agrees. She knows the horse thing is kinds of nudging at the edges of irrational. "Anyway, see? I told you. There are even two bad things about me in there. Horse phobia _and_ I have an unseemly big toe."

"You do have an incredibly gross toe." Gail agrees, wrinkling her nose. She slips and hand into Holly's singlet, sliding her hand slowly up her side. "Lucky the rest of you is so … seemly." She says.

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	22. Chapter 22: Gail

Gail is just trying to keep her head, down, focussing her attention on the chewing and chopsticks and the whole hand-to-mouth act of the eating when she hears it.

They are in one of those fluorescent-lit, white wall dumpling restaurants Gail and Steve love because the eating is cheap and good and the place is relatively hipster free. They particularly like this one on Carnell Street because the waitresses are kind of mean. And Gail and Steve like them mean. They have workshopped this fact and have figured out over time that their being okay with taking their food service with a dose of recalcitrance must somehow be related to the surly, beautiful Polish woman who was hauled in from time to time to cook at their house when they were teenagers, in those periods when both their parents were working toward various promotions and weren't around. It feels like home. Their version of home.

Not tonight, though. Being here in this restaurant with these three people was not really how Gail imagined this night would turn out. In her head this night would be all about a quick drink, maybe some food and then Gail would go home because she needs to go home and sleep because she has to work the earliest starting shift known to mankind in the morning.

She sure as hell did not plan on double dating.

It was fine in the bar. It hadn't seemed so strange when they were all crowded around a little bar table, their hanging out together more an accident of similarly timed after-work drinks than anything else. In The Penny they had been just a part of a spontaneously formed, loosely committed group drinking off the day together and trading war stories. But then Chris left, and Holly's work friend had left, and the others had had drifted away and then there were four. And then there was talk of hunger, and dinner and dumplings and the next thing they knew, they were all in this place, eating and drinking and being— as Gail seems to be the only one to have noticed— on a freaking double date.

It hit her as they were making their way through the parking lot to the restaurant tucked between the laundry and the junk shop. It was there Gail realised what this impromptu dinner had turned into. And there were things about that that terrified her.

First there was the spectre of having to do normal, grown up dinner table conversation. Participating in this new social dynamic was hard enough. But still, that would not be the worst part. There was also her fear of an expectation that she was going to have to perform duties as the social glue, the only one that knows everyone at the table. With that role comes a responsibility for which she has absolutely no interest nor desire.

Such was the level of social anxiety that flooded Gail as they walked into the brightly lit space to meet the other two, Holly's hand stopping gently on the small of her back for a second as they passed through the door, that the thought flashed through her mind: _how do I get out of this?_

Of course she realises by the time they are halfway into their entrees that she should have known Holly would need no such social assistance from her. Beautiful, confident Holly, who makes effortless makes conversation with everyone, who artfully leaves Gail to the nervous silence she needs for the first half hour, who cheerfully dukes it out with Steve over whether prawn or combination rolls are better, and who is now chatting away to Traci over a shared platter of dumplings, continuing their conversation from The Penny needs nothing from Gail. There was not a single thing to worry about. Gail is nine parts relieved and one part envious. Why can't she be that relaxed in social situations?

Yet even though Holly is doing just fine on her own, and Gail is rescued from that particular social responsibility, she is still feeling somewhat weirded out as she hunkers down to her food, leaving Holly and Traci to their little getting-to-know-you session and falling into the usual Peck sibling shtick with Steve. They have their own particular winning, fond, conversational combination of policing shop talk, what mum/dad/Great Aunt Lucy-did-now catch-ups and traded insults to get on with.

What is still keeping Gail in the land of strange, and what takes her a little while to figure out is that she is not used to sharing Steve with people, let alone Holly or Traci.

It is not that it bothers Gail that her brother has a girlfriend, or that it is Traci. Not at all. She'd been all for the Traci Steve match up. She'd helped instigate it. She knew she had to after Steve had asked her some too-casual questions about Traci a while back and Gail had instantly picked up the scent of a somewhat smitten brother and put in some groundwork. But Gail had always figured that Steve and Traci the couple would be something they would be doing on their own time, not Gail's time. She had forgotten that at some point it would ultimately mean the three of them socialising in some way. And now with Holly.

Largely, Gail and Steve time has always been done in private. They have never talked much at work, or even drunk together much after work. At 15 there is a hierarchy and Steve has his people and she has her people.

Gail likes it better this way, anyway, and she knows Steve does too. Their relationship is just between them, and revolves around quick catch-ups over noodles on week nights, long phone calls when they haven't had a chance to touch base or Steve has been undercover, or shared drives home debriefs after painful family dinners. They never go long without communicating, without checking in on each other. Even when he has been undercover, Steve has managed to sneak in a call or a visit or a message to Gail somehow, just to let her know he is alive.

She'd probably never admit it to anyone, but Steve is the one person Gail knows she cannot live without in this world. She loves his stupid face, and his dumb ass sense of humour and the fact that he knows more than anyone what her world is like. How can she not love her co-winner of _Survivor, The Peck Edition_? They lived it together, they escaped together and now they have each other to reminisce over the tale and to relish together in their shared kinks and quirks, borne of their common Peck breeding.

Gail knows that she and Steve did not survive quite the same household, though. because she knows that Steve escaped the particular psychological scarring inflicted by their mother in the way that an older son can and an only daughter cannot. It's was something strictly about mothers and their daughters, and about women. It was something Steve could not necessarily ignore, though- not with Gail and her mother constantly at loud, irrational periods of loggerheads or sometimes at silent, protracted, mutinous impasses. But it was also something he didn't have to directly engage with.

But what made them close, something that did not happen until their teens, was that although they did not talk much about the increasingly alienating home life, or of their absent parents, or even the battles between Gail and her mother during her sudden bursts of relentless presence, she could always feel his sympathy, even when it was just by his mere presence.

For every night that Gail was out drinking, partying, hooking up with guys with cars, and doing everything that could make her mother's nightmare version of Gail live, there were nights at home with Steve, devouring films, and crappy food found buried in the back of the cupboards and talking around the edges of their boy and girl and parent problems, their closeness derived from their ability to wrap a protective bubble of collective sympathy around themselves and take shelter for a while.

Gail picks a piece of onion out of her rice and watches Holly as she gives Traci a closer look at the ring she is wearing. Then she watches Traci admire it. _Some people are just so normal, _she thinks_. How did they always know how to behave?_ She looks back to her brother. He is sucking what is left out of the tail of a prawn in that disgusting way he loves to, not caring if anyone notices. She smiles to herself. Just another thing she adores about her brother is that he too sometimes lacks a social gauge. He is definitely better with people than Gail but she likes to know that this is another trait they both share. And because of that maybe, just maybe, it is just another thing she can blame on their parenting.

And Gail knows that Steve knows they are on a double date.

He knows even though they have not yet had a conversation about what Gail and Holly are. And they probably won't, not until it just becomes a non-thing, a passing mention kind of everyday subject. That's how the Peck kids play it. Steve and Gail don't do announcements, not unless it is completely necessary. Not because they don't tell each other stuff- they do, but just because unless they have to, they prefer to let the ebbs and flows of their lives slide by each other with just an acknowledgment and without too much comment or prying or judgement. They have their mother for that.

So anyway, Steve is being cool, but Gail can tell he knows, that he's aware that Holly is someone he needs to know because she sees him looking at her and listening to her in that way she recognise. A kind of examination he does when he's not being police, but he is trying to figure someone out. And she can tell he likes her too. He only picks fights with women he likes. That's how Pecks do it.

She reaches over and digs her spoon into his prawn dish, helping herself. Steve's only response is to cock one eyebrow and then to nab a dumpling straight from her plate, rather than the shared one.

"I was thinking the other day, about the cabin." He says through his mouthful of dumpling. "Remember that summer, that time when you were peeing in the bushes- the one with the…?"

"Steve," Gail narrows her eyes and points her chopsticks at her brother. "If you start telling that story, have no doubt in your teensy, tiny, brain-damaged little mind that it will be followed up by another Peck family story."

Steve just looks at her.

"That's right," Gail jabs her chopsticks in his direction. "You know the one— the one with the Sandy doll?"

Steve says nothing; just hold ups up his own chopsticks in a clear signal of surrender.

Gail grins. Conversation over.

She is just about to launch into a story she has been saving for him, about a drug bust she'd heard about the other day where the guys was keeping his stash in one of those gross inflatable sex doll things, She is about to tell him how a rookie had found it the hard way when she hears it, a snatch of conversation drifting over from the other side of the table.

"My last girlfriend was thinking of having a baby," she hears Holly say to Traci.

Gail freezes, her chopsticks halfway between her mouth and the bowl.

"You wouldn't believe all the planning and research that goes into that particular exercise." She continues. "I mean I knew it wouldn't be simple, but…."

"Yeah, well, "Traci laughs. "That's what I am saying, an accident at sixteen takes all the pre-planning and worry out of the way, that's for sure."

Gail puts the chopsticks down. It takes her a moment to process what she has heard. But when she does, a barrage questions fight it out for occupancy in her brain. What exactly was Holly saying? Did this ex want to have a baby after they had broken up? Or when they were together? _What _happened?

This is new, unexpected information that Gail does not know what to do with. And it is the kind of information Gail has been has not been looking forward to hearing. She knew that sooner or later, she was going to have to face up to the ghost of exes past. That, Gail knows, is an inevitable part of every relationship, when past significants and their stories loom from the shadows. And she hates that part. Gail has always felt what she knows is a complete irrational jealousy of past relationships in her partner's lives, even when she knows nothing about them.

And she is sure a woman like Holly has been loved plenty of times before and by woman a lot more interesting than her, and she has not been looking forward to hearing about them. Of course, she has heard little things, in those days when they first met and they were getting to know each other in a way that was about budding friendship and not what they have become. But they were just little things, asides, passing mentions in funny anecdotes. And even now Gail can kind of deal with that stuff. She knows she will eventually have to hear about the woman who told Holly she snores when she is drunk, and to hear the story of her first love and of her other significant others. But she really had never considered that she might some day hear about another life where Holly and an ex and a plan for babies might figure in the same scenario.

That is a concept she has no idea what to do with.

She chews it over in the car as Holly drives her home. Does she want to ask? Does she want to know?

Eventually, she can't help herself.

"Your ex wanted to have a baby?"

"Sorry? Oh, yep," says Holly, turning onto State, "she did."

"While you were together, or after?"

Holly takes a moment before answering as she negotiates around a gaggle of drunk girls who have decided to run straight through the traffic on their way to the next party. Gail presses her lips together, watching one of the girls catching her heel on the opposite curb and falling. Idiot, she thinks.

"It started while we were together."

The girl is laughing hysterically while her friend tries to drag her up by her sequinned jacket.

"So," Gail asks. "What happened?"

"What happened?" Holly checks the rear view mirror and shrugs. "We broke up."

"Oh." Gail shrugs. That answers that question.

Holly turns into Gail's street and pulls up outside. She turns to Gail, reaching out to take her hand from where it is lying in her lap.

"I like your brother."

"Yeah, he's an idiot." Gail says, a knee-jerk response to any discussion of her brother.

"And Traci's nice too. They seem like great people."

"Mmm" Gail shrugs, non-committal. She doesn't feel like talking about her brother and Traci. She just wants to go to bed. Alone. "I've to go."

"Okay."

Gail can see the question in her eyes, but Holly doesn't ask it.

Instead she leans over and kisses Gail. "Well, sleep well. I hope the early morning is not too excruciating."

Gail smiles briefly, obediently, and climbs out of the car.


	23. Chapter 23

Again, it has not been one of Holly's favourite days. Not quite a shipwreck, but definitely, definitely not a win either.

For starters this day is the one where she loses Tom, the boy wonder of interns, and Holly is really, really very sorry to see him go. She has forgotten the pleasure of teaching someone who really wants to be taught, who asks the kinds of question that make you actually have to think on your feet. He has been one of those students that remind her that it can be exciting to teach.

She had also forgotten how discouraging it is to try and teach someone who shows zero interest in being taught. That is, until Tom's intern antipode, Amber. That experience of teaching had been a little less exciting and a whole lot more demoralising.

Now they have both gone back to their studies and, in the near future, another rotation somewhere else. And in a couple of weeks Holly will have a couple more fresh faces to train up. The poor things, she thinks, as she pushes up her glasses and rubs her weary, computer-fatigued eyes. Good or bad, this new pair will have a lot to live up to come anywhere close to touching either of the unique, conflicting abilities of Tom and Amber.

She sent Tom on his way with a glowing review, a letter of recommendation for his summer program, her phone number and a sincere promise of assistance if he ever needs a helping hand career-wise. Amber, on the other hand, earned herself a cursory review, the least Holly has ever written on an intern evaluation. The rule of giving negative feedback," her old supervisor used to say, "Is open with something nice, and then start criticising." It took her a whole morning last week just to conjure up the something good to say.

Even after her departure, Amber has still managed to sully Holly's working week. It was Amber that saw her morning start with being hauled into her boss's office. Apparently Amber had some things to say about Holly's supervision in her student feedback form.

"It's nothing serious," Brian had said straight away, when she'd stepped into his office first thing this morning upon the invite of a brief email. "It's just that," he said, leaning back in his chair and holding a piece of paper aloft, "one of our residents has left some … well … dissatisfied feedback on her experience here. Protocol dictates we must follow it up, you know."

Holly is really good at her job and she knows it. And she knows she is not just good at the bits where she performs actual forensics. She's good at all the other parts, too. She is a good teacher. She publishes regularly- more regularly than anyone else in Pathology. She never takes holidays when everyone else is taking holidays. And she gets along with everyone, even the 'difficult' people in Tox. She also knows how to ask for favours and how to remember to return favours. And she knows just how everything she does affects the work of everyone around her. And whenever she can, she tries to do things the way they are supposed to. And this is why she has never really found herself in a situation where her boss actually has to be a boss, calling her in to question on her actions.

But this morning, because of this clueless overly-entitled college student she has been asked to explain why someone who should never have been allowed to set foot in the place is registering their unhappiness with the amount of work they had to do while they were here, and about the apparently inhospitable manner of her supervision— great big lie fabricated to cover Amber's backside in case of a bad review, Holly realises.

So galled by this girl's entirely _un_cunning attempt to exonerate herself from any responsibility with an unfounded accusation, it was all Holly could do not to lose her temper again. It was only the fact that she knew that Brian, her great bear of a boss, was entirely sympathetic to her situation that she could stay calm and explain herself. And thankfully, because of her reputation, and because of Brian's awareness of all that had gone terribly wrong because of Amber's dumbfounding ineptness, this little meeting was really just about Holly re-confirming these facts and Brian ticking a box that said he had done his part too.

Still, Holly does not like to be questioned on her ability to perform this job, even when she knows it is a mere formality. It makes her feel uncertain in the one part of her world where she never, ever feels uncertain of her ability to perform.

So, that was her morning.

And then, this afternoon, there is Gail.

And not in a good way.

After the uncomfortable breakfast meeting she spent the morning busily finishing up on a soon-to-be-due journal paper due, trying to break down the process of working with muscle tissue and bullet wounds in post-mortem submersions into digestible reading. It isn't until lunch— a late lunch at that— that she even thought of looking at her phone. When she finally rescued it from the pocket of her jacket Holly finds two missed calls from Gail. When she first tried to return them, from the noisy little café downstairs, there is no answer. There is no answer the second time, either. But that is not unusual. Gail often can't get to her phone. Holly doesn't even leave a message. She will wait for Gail to call her.

But when she hasn't heard anything by mid-afternoon, when she knows Gail should be finished work, she tries again. Gail answers this time.

"Hey, how was the evil early shift?" Holly asks, leaning back in her chair, pleased to hear her voice.

"Okay."

"So, are you finished?"

"Yep."

"Lucky." Holly says, smiling. She has several more hours of her day ahead.

She waits for Gail to respond with something smart-ass or sweet— you never can know which it will be— but there is only silence.

"Uh, so, you called before?" she says, tugging off her glasses and laying them on her desk.

"No."

Holly frowns. "Oh. My phone told me I had a couple of missed calls from you."

"Mmm." Is all Gail says in response, as if she has no idea and is not particularly interested in why that might have happened.

"Well, that is weird," Holly says slowly, trying to gauge whatever this strange conversational frequency they have found themselves on. Something is not okay at Gail's end, but it is hard to read what.

She decides to take the direct route.

"Everything okay?"

"Everything is fine."

The mammoth leap to a three-word response give Holly the chance to pick up on The Tone, the highly obvious hint of chill in Gail's voice that tells her that in fact, everything is quite the opposite of fine.

"Really?" Holly asks her, narrowing her eyes. "Everything is fine?"

"Yep."

O-kay," she says, not believing Gail for a second. "Well that's good, then."

They lapse into silence again, as Holly tries to figure out how to approach this curt, clipped version of Gail at the other end of the line. If she were with her in person, this situation would be much easier to read.

So she decides to simply wait it out. If she keeps asking questions, she knows Gail will just keep up this one-word-answer charade of fine-ness and she will never be able to figure out what particular brand of freak-out this is. So she just sits there patiently with silent Gail on the other end of the phone, one leg on her desk, watching her colleagues move back and forth in the hallway through the open door.

She is just taking in the somewhat alarming spectre of Nell from Ballistics' new dye job when Gail finally speaks.

"So, I'm confused, Holly" she says, The Tone now turned positively accusatory. "You were dating someone for five years- _five years_- and when she wants to have a baby, you decide she is all wrong and you jump ship?"

"Well," says Holly, taken aback. _This is what this is about?_ "That would be the harsh, black and white version of it I guess."

"Kind of low, don't you think?" comes the quick retort.

"Uh, no, I don't think, actually." Holly says carefully, taking her leg off the table and leaning forward, frowning.

_What is happening?_

"Gail. I told you last night why we broke up." She says slowly. "It wasn't about me jumping ship, as you put it, it was about figuring out what I wanted."

"Still, a pretty selfish move if you ask me." Gail responds.

"It was about what she wanted too. And, actually, I _didn't _ask you." Holly shoots out before she can check herself. Holly has heard Gail speak like this, snide and cutting, but never to her. And she doesn't like it one bit.

After last night's phone call, she thought they were done with this. She'd just been about to close her computer and switch out her light when Gail had rung. Relieved to hear from her after that somewhat tepid goodbye in the car, Holly had picked up, smiling.

Gail had immediately launched into an onslaught of questions following on from their conversation in the car. She'd clearly gone home and sat there stewing over it.

She hadn't known immediately whether to be flattered or worried by Gail's queries. Past relationships are always part beguiling, part reviling mysteries. She understood the curiosity. She knows she is slightly curious about Nick, who she had only seen from a distance.

When Gail had been odd when they parted in the car last night, Holly had just thought Gail hadn't liked hearing about her ex. Gail has already freely— proudly even— admitted to being the jealous type. She didn't realise this allusion to a past relationship at dinner last night was going to throw Gail into a whirlwind of, well whatever this whirlwind of feelings is about.

So in the spirit of trying to calm her skittish girl, Holly filled in the details as best as she could, telling Gail how, at a time when their relationship was beginning to weary, Rebecca's biological clock had started sounding, and how the prospect of this change that would demand an immense commitment from Holly had caused her to examine their relationship in a way she had not had to do for a long time. And how, in doing so, she became less and less sure she was ready to commit to living her life with this woman. And how, because of that, she thought it was better if they parted so Rebecca, who she loved and respected so much, could find someone who wanted to make that step with her. And it turned out she had been right because neither looked back on it with regret.

So she has told Gail all this. And she really thought Gail had heard her by the time they'd finished that phone call.

She knows better now, though. Left alone with that information, it seems to have taken a very, very different shape in Gail's mind. And Holly can't help but feel angered by Gail's willingness to turn her into the bad guy.

"And you know," Holly tells her, sighing. "I don't actually see why you get to judge me for a decision I made a long time ago."

"Well I do." Gail says, formal, cold. "Bye."

She hangs up. Holly flops back in her chair closes her eyes, exasperated. She feels almost breathless the pace at which things can turn so quickly with this woman. And she is not sure whether she is more confused or angered by this sudden, baffling turn.

"Hey Holly?"

Holly jumps. It is Nell from ballistics and her newly red hair standing in the door of her office.

"You're working on submerged bullet wound research at the mo, aren't you?" she asks, leaning on the jamb and staring at the tablet she is holding.

"Uh, yes," Holly sits up, trying to get her work brain back. "Working on my paper right now." She leans forward, shakes the mouse and the computer screen springs back to life.

"Well I have a treat for you," Nell grins, holding up her tablet to show Holly an image she can't really make out without her glasses.

"What have you got?" Holly folds hers arms.

"Decomp. Bullet wounds to stomach and heart. Submerged maybe six months. Actually, we'd like you to weight in on that."

"Ooh," Holly smiles at her. "A treat indeed."

"We don't have him yet, but we have images. Feel like coming for a walk?"

"Only if you made popcorn." Holly jokes as she stands up, ready to follow. Nell turns and leaves the room, ever on the move. Holly pauses a moment, reaching for her glasses and trying to mentally shake off Gail and the insanity before she follows Nell to her lab.

There is nothing she can do about it right now, anyway.

**Author note: I just wanted to say that I have really enjoyed reading the comments to this chapter, largely because so much of what you have had to say is what is playing out in the next few chapters, which have been written but are being edited. Gail IS being an ass- but people don't just change overnight- not in my stories, anyway!**

**Anyway, please consider leaving a review for this piece. Thanks!**


	24. Chapter 24: Holly

Gail lives in a frat house.

Sure, it might be kind of grown-up version of a frat house. A frat house with a bit more money and a touch more taste. But the couple of times Holly has been there she can't help feeling like it is the embodiment of some kind of arrested development in the form of a flat: a living space where college met police academy and never quite broke up.

Holly, who has always liked to live in spaces tending toward minimal is reminded of when she used to share apartments and never had a say in how they looked or felt, although she was sensitive to the clutter and the lack of cohesion. The whole place strikes her as a kind of haphazard bricolage of all the lives lived in residence over time, a motley mesh of sometimes tasteful with sometimes bachelor, of random, joke-y vintage store knick knacks, framed movie posters, sports gear, of old lady wallpaper and strangely hopeful decorative choices things like the shopping list in the kitchen that has never changes, merely a parody of its own utility. And even though some effort has been made to make it pleasant: the pictures hung and plants watered, all the beer bottles, take out containers and the gaming console and giant TV dominating the living room undo all of the work in growing it up.

Of course it doesn't hurt the frat house image that Gail is ensconced on the couch, squinting at the TV screen, deep in orchestrating some bloody, violent massacre via remote control, a half-empty tequila bottle on the side table next to her, and a pair of shot glasses sitting at the ready beside it. Holly hopes they are from an old party and not from this afternoon. Chris, who was the one to open the front door to her, quickly skirts around Holly and lopes back into the living room. He flops onto the couch and picks up his own controller, kicking his socked feet up to rest on the coffee table. Frat house image complete.

As Holly steps further into the room, Gail glances quickly sideways, notes her presence, and turns immediately back to the game. It reminds Holly of high school when her friends, hopeless with crushes on guys from school, would drag her to make visits to their houses where they would hang out, awkward and impatient, dressed in their cheap drugstore best, waiting for one of them to look up from their game and register their presence. Sometimes a sideways glance or, even better, a grunt or a smirk would be all they would get. But the girls kept on coming, hopeful, and Holly, who kept letting herself be dragged along, would wonder why they bothered.

She steps into the living room in Chris's trail.

"Hi." She says.

"Hi." Gail replies. The Tone of that earlier phone call is well and truly alive. Holly can detect it loud and clear even in this one-word greeting.

Gail stares at the screen with a focus so concentrated, so deliberate that Holly knows it is nothing about the game and everything about her. She crosses her arms over her chest and sighs. She was hoping it wouldn't still be like this.

"Oh, crap," Chris, who has been glancing back and forth between the game and Gail and Holly, suddenly sits up. "Uh, I forgot- I have got to get going," he says, in one of those epically obvious duck-the-awkward-private-made-public-situation-and -run manoeuvres, a form of etiquette sometimes necessary in all share houses. Holly feels sorry for him. There is no mistaking the tension in the room. She'd probably get out while she could if she was him, too.

He throws down his controller and jumps up, picking up his keys and making a hasty exit out of the room. Gail's reaction is to throw up her hands, control clenched in one fist and to toss a look at Chris's departing back, one that might have killed had he not exited so fast.

"Just because I was winning AGAIN," she yells after him, tossing her control onto the sofa and crossing her arms over her chest. "Bastard," she mutters, still staring at the screen.

Holly sighs. She guesses she is not going to be offered hors d'oeuvres— or even a seat. She walks over to the nearest armchair and perches on the arm.

"I don't think it was because you were winning, somehow," she tells Gail.

There is no response.

"Gail," Holly says, folding her arms over her chest. "Can you please tell me what exactly are you so upset about?"

"I'm not upset," is her removed response.

"Yes you are." Holly corrects her, crossing her arms. She is not playing that game where they pretend Gail is not being imperious and weird. "And it seems to me it is because you just learned that I once broke up with someone who wanted to have a baby with me." She leans forward, "This isn't about babies, is it?" she asks, praying it is not— certain it is not.

"Jesus, no!" Gail spits. "It's not about stupid babies."

"Okay, okay," Holly holds a hand up in defence, relieved. "So it is about me breaking up with someone, then?"

Gail says nothing. Holly decides to take that as an affirmative response. Or affirmative non-response, anyway.

She leans forward. "Because if it is, that's kind of crazy." She tells her.

Gail turns and looks at Holly long enough for her to witness the frost rapidly icing over her blue eyes, then looks away.

Holly decides she had better try a different tack.

"You know, what is so confusing about this… whatever it is you are angry about, is that I didn't do anything wrong. In fact, I did the right thing. And I have already said all this." She sighs. "She wanted to do something huge- something that was going to take a mammoth commitment from me and I had to know she was someone I wanted to be with long enough to do that. It kind of forced my hand." Holly shrugs. "I realised she wasn't the right person for me- and that I wasn't right for her. I mean, better now than later, right?"

Gail doesn't respond.

Holly sighs. She wasn't expecting an answer anyway, but it doesn't stop her being frustrated by this protracted, obstinate silence. Frustrated because Gail is being nuts. But also, frustrated because Gail is making her feel guilty all over again for something she already spent a significant period of time dealing with her guilt over years ago. Why does she have to go through it again?

"Gail," she says quietly, hoping the change of tone might raise a response. She gets none. "This is even crazier because _she's _not mad about it. Rebecca and I are friends, dear friends. She has her baby now, with a woman she is very happy with. And now I am with someone I could potentially be happy with."

She hopes this might provoke some kind of thaw, but Gail just blinks and presses her lips together, saying nothing.

"Come on." Holly says, looking up at the ceiling. "Gail, this is ridiculous."

"Oh, so I'm ridiculous?" Gail shoots her another arctic look.

"No, but you are _being_ ridiculous." Holly replies. Now she's fed up and out of energy for this one-sided fight. She slaps her hands on her legs and stands. "I'm done. I'm not taking this on. You need to figure this out on your own. I am going."

Gail stiffens slightly, looking for a second like she is going to react. Just as quickly, however, she recovers, resuming her impassive pose, staring at the now blank screen.

Although she doesn't really want to, Holly forces herself to turn and walk away, pushing open the front door and pulling it quietly closed behind her.

Once outside, she strides down the walk, hunting for her keys in her bag. When she finds them, she flicks open the locks and climbs into her car. Sighing, she stops, keys in hand and sits back, resting her head against the seat. Walking away is not how Holly likes to deal with problems. But at the same time she can't help feeling incredibly annoyed at this irrational behaviour of Gail's. Her refusal to surrender her ice act, even enough for a discussion, confirms for Holly what she has suspected all along: Gail has _never_ had to be the one to back down, not unless she wants to.

Well she is going to have to this time.

She is aware that the way Gail's mind works is not the way that anyone she has ever been in any kind of romantic relationship's mind works. She has always been attracted to women who, like Gail, are tough and funny and feisty, and who blend that irresistible combination of serious and absurd, but she has never been with someone so arrested by insecurity, so quick to turn.

And this irrational pique, she knows now, has very little to do with Rebecca, or what happened with Rebecca and is more about Gail knowing that Holly has ended a relationship before. And possibly because Holy did it when the other person wasn't expecting it. This small fact, she knows, has utterly terrified Gail. She just wishes Gail would admit that this is what has made her so crazy.

Holly sighs and shuts her eyes. She has certainly found herself a skittish one. It is lucky she is shaping up to be worth it in so many ways, because Gail is turning out to be hard, hard work. Holly mightn't be so willing to deal with these kinds of spontaneous, confounding flare-ups of insecurity if Gail wasn't so frustratingly wonderful most of the time.

Holly smiles to herself, dropping her keys into her lap and resting her hands on the steering wheel. Even now, in the midst of her frustration with this beautiful, damaged girl, she can only be amused at the idea that she might be able to delude herself into thinking she would have any choice about whether or she can keep caring about Gail.

Maybe Gail is really so inured to her own feelings she does not even know that this is why she is so mad. Maybe Holly needs to point it out. She sighs, leans over and digs through her bag until she locates her phone. When she finds it, she pushes up her glasses, and quickly types the message.

_Remember what you told me the day we met? You are being that cat up the tree. And I'm pretty sure this counts as creating yourself an emergency situation. Please stay put._

Tossing her phone back into her bag, she leans forward and turns the key in the ignition. Gail is going to have to get herself down if that's what she really wants to do. Holly is sure as hell not going to help her. But at the same time, it is Gail who needs to figure out if she is brave enough to stay up there, too. Holly can't help her with that either, at this point. Not if Gail won't let her.

She pulls away from the curb and Gail's house, preparing to wait it out.

**I'd love your feedback. Seriously.**


	25. Chapter 25:Gail

When Gail Peck wants to get something done, she knows how to get something done. Sometimes completing the task is all about what her parents always told her- hard work and perseverance. Sometimes it's just the product of sheer good old-fashioned bull-headed obstinacy. But whatever it takes she gets it done.

It's always been like this. When she needed to cram for an algebra test so she wouldn't get a month's grounding for failing grade 10 math, she studied quick and hard enough to pass that damn test. When she wanted to get better at French to impress the new French teacher, she got better at French (it helped that she kind of loved it). When she wanted to get through her time at the police training college without making a fool out of herself, she'd called on every single resource she had (including her family) to make sure she could save face. If she needed to get better at shooting at a target so she didn't have to be called a rookie and longer she made sure as hell she hit that target the second time around.

And if she wants to put something out of her mind- to turn the blinders on and not give whatever it is bothering her the time of day, then Gail Peck does her damn best to keep it out of her mind.

And one great thing about Gail's job is that if you want to lose yourself in it, it can be pretty darn easy. All you have to do is put in the hours, say yes to any task thrown your way, work late and, whatever you do, don't think about whatever it is you are trying to distract yourself from.

Gail does it all the time. Only the thing she is trying to ignore this time is different. It is not her mother. It is not Nick and Andy. It is not her own guilt feelings of cheating. It is not even the resonant horrors of being beaten and kidnapped, the moment that kept her head buried in the job as much as she could last year.

And now, in the sprit of ignoring another thing that she has no idea how— no ability— to deal with, she puts her head down and polices.

That will be all she needs to do, she thinks.

**Day One: Booking desk**

The first day is easy.

There are a few glitches, but generally Gail wins.

The first glitch is Chris, of course. They don't eat breakfast. There is no time this morning between her snoozing and the showering and the dressing and the rush to pick up Chris's only clean uniform at the drycleaners on the way.

"Everything okay last night?" he asks her as he drives them to work.

"You know what I hate about this uniform?" Gail tells him, yanking at the underarm of her left sleeve where all of a sudden her shirt has decided to chafe. "Everything."

"I don't mind the colour." Chris replies, pulling into the parking lot. He gets the picture, it seems. She does not want to talk about it.

Gail is assigned booking. Or check-in as Oliver likes to call it, as if it Division 15 is the Hilton and whoever is on booking is the poor hapless concierge. Only it is never quite as slapstick and fun as Oliver's version of events promises.

At first she isn't happy about the news. All she wants— all she needs— today is to be out there amongst it, dealing with all the fools and reprobates out on the street. The only way to not think is to _do_.

"Hey, at least you don't have to be out there in the cold." Chris tells her as they stride out of parade.

"Who cares about the cold?" Gail makes a beeline for the coffee station. Another downside to today— she has to drink the crappy work coffee all day.

"Me," says Chris, zipping up his uniform jacket to his chin.

"Only wimps worry about the cold." Gail tells him, thrusting her hands in her pockets and walking faster. "In my book, being cold is better than being stuck in here all day with the tired, the drunk and the criminally insane." She grabs a mug from the cupboard.

"And don't forget the prisoners," Oliver quips, appearing out of nowhere as ever and grabbing Gail's cup out of her hand. He snatches the coffee pot out from under her nose, fills her cup and strolls away with it.

"Oh, _hilarious._" Gail snarls, snatching another cup off the shelf.

The next glitch. It is one simple order, spoken by a detective to a cop as she marches toward the booking desk, a lamb to the slaughter.

"Take it down to forensics."

Gail has no idea how many times she has heard that simple, straightforward order since becoming a police officer. Too many. Now it something she has to purposefully, pointedly ignore. Unless the order is directed at her. Then she has absolutely no idea what she'll do.

Booking isn't actually as bad as she thought it would be.

And in terms of keeping her eyes on the prize: which is a total and complete mental shutout, it is kind of the perfect day.

As annoying as so many of the people who come through here can be, Gail has forgotten how much she actually kind of enjoys the theatre that is downstairs at 15.

One thing she has learned over the handful of times she has been handed the booking desk is that every single person has a different reaction when they are taken from the service car, through the sally port and into the lock-up. Everyone has their own kind of reaction to the finality of its institutional white walls, its Missing and Most Wanted posters and its end-of-the-road holding cells. There is always that moment when they realise that there is no hope left of not getting locked up- that there is no interim between the car they have suddenly found themselves in and processing and that tiny cell they can see right next to them. This is the place where they will await their fate, or, if they are lucky, a really good lawyer to help shape that fate.

Learning that this is the place they have ended up after things suddenly got real and they were thrown into a police car always provokes one of many myriad response from 15's newest inmates.

Some go quietly. They have either that terrified quiet of someone who has never gotten themselves in trouble before and don't want to make any more, or the clueless quiet of those who are waiting for legal help and have seen all those movies that tell them not to speak until a lawyer is present, as if saying their name or address will immediately incriminate them. Or, of course, there is the native quiet- ones who are keep their mouths shut because they have done this so many times before that they well and truly know the drill. This lot all submit silently to the form-filling, the finger-printing and the cell re-arranging.

Then there are the loud ones, the angry, outraged ones- the ones who let you know, loud and clear that THIS IS ALL A GIANT MISTAKE and there is no way that little old them should have ended up in here. There are the violent ones, who come in screaming and kicking and hissing and have to be wrestled into submission or a cell before they can even be processed. Then there are the drunk ones. They can be a mixed bag. There are the ones who try to keep the party going, wilfully oblivious to what is actually going on, trying to jolly up the other inmates, and demanding drinks as if Gail is a cocktail waitress and they have been waiting far to long for the next round. There are the singers, which is never good. There are the letches, who are generally disgusting. But whichever they are, they are never, ever quiet.

Being a Thursday, the official opening of the party portion of the week, it was never going to be the most peaceful day downstairs. But then, wouldn't you know it, it is Gail's lucky day. It is the annual Toronto punk pub crawl, a long day of rowdy drinking, starting in 27's jurisdiction and finishing, yep, that's right, in a pub right smack bang in the heart of 15 territory. And some of these guys, Gail learns, despite the studs and the 'tudes, really do not know how to hold their booze— or their sense of reality— after stopping at nine different pubs before mid-afternoon.

"You," A saucer-eyed runt with a lightning bolt shaved into his green hair stares, crazy-eyed at her as she hauls him over to one of the cells, "Are so silver and white. Is it…" He raises a finger to his mouth, "ghostly princess, or cadaverous spectre?"

"How the hell would I know?" Gail snarls. "All I know is that you, my friend, are an idiot." She prods him into the cell. "Have a nap. You'll feel better."

So, needless to say, it's a hell of a day in booking, punctuated with the sounds of belligerent counter-culture prats and the vomit-stink of breakfast beers and sweat ingrained on ancient leather.

And if is it this bad in here, Gail wonders, as she wrestles another drunken mohawk's fingers into giving her a reasonable print, what must it be like on the street? Because it's not just the punks, either. It's like every would-be criminal decided to look at their inspiration boards or watched Oprah or something and then just to got right out there looking to realise their full potential today. One after another, harassed looking patrol units drops of another of nature's finest at Gail's feet and she rushes to process them, print them and pen them before another comes along.

And what with all this human carnage the day just slides on by in a slurry of displays of daytime drunkenness, proclamations of innocence and, of course, professions of love for their blonde booking officer. It's kind of the perfect destination for Gail because she is feeling the snark and booking is where it pays off to be surly to get the job done.

And when Frank comes in, just after five, begging her to stay late, she doesn't even blink. She just says yes and keeps on herding and wrangling.

And then finally, hours later, after a long hot shower to slough off the stank of the day, Gail trails along with Traci and Chris for a quick recovery beer and the third glitch.

"So, Holly's cool."" Traci says, all innocence as they find a table near the bar.

Gail had forgotten the weird double date dinner only a couple of nights ago and all that Holly and Traci bonding.

"Mmhmm," Is all Gail says, sitting and changing the subject to the first thing she can think of. "Do you know a guy told me he put out a cigarette on his tongue for a dare this morning, just to win free beer for the whole day?"

"Whoah," Traci responds, flinching into her drink.

"I mean, have I underestimated the potential of human stupidity until now, or does that take the cake?"

"I don't know, Gail. You were the lucky one on booking today." Traci responds. "You'd be the best judge of that."

And that is all it takes for them to leave her alone. Two more beers and a lengthy argument about who can recall the dumbest thing seen on the job (it's not a competition, of course, but Gail totally wins with her story about the guy who robbed a gun store with a painted water pistol) and it is time to go home and to fall into one of those quick face-down, don't-even-get-undressed-or-under-the-covers submissions into unconsciousness.

Day one, by all accounts, can be considered a success.

**Thanks for all the feedback and reviews if you've been generous enough to leave one. Much appreciated!**


	26. Chapter 26

**Day two: Prisoner transport.**

Usually, it wouldn't be an ideal assignment: a long car trip to pick up a prisoner witness needed for a court case. It's the kind of drive would usually allow for plenty of time to reflect, no way to hide from your own thoughts.

Not when the drive is taken with Oliver Shaw.

Ever since the shooting he has been back at work with a bandage and a vengeance, trotting out Oliverisms and life lessons with vim. The drive is no different. While usually Gail would sling a few arrows just to remind him that, as ever, she's the wayward, stubborn daughter, she lets him go the full Oliver on this trip. Probably because they have four hours to kill and she doesn't want to kill it with the thoughts in her own head. So, between whatever that talking book thing was he was playing on the way up, his lengthy dissection of Dorito vs the Frito as the ultimate road trip snack, and his potted verbal history of Canada's most philander-y Prime Ministers (how does Oliver manage to be so _niche_ all of the time?), Oliver has the trip well and truly covered.

It's lucky, too, because the prisoner himself is boring as hell. Shaven-haired and huge (what do they feed them in there, Gail wonders) he sleeps most of the way back to Toronto, with his mouth open, cheek pressed against the car door, like he's had a huge night clubbing instead of stewing in a cell with nothing but a bed for company. Whatever he's been doing, apparently he needs forty winks. Or forty thousand winks.

"Aw, bucko here needs his beauty sleep." Oliver croons, tipping his head sideways as he look through the rear vision mirror at the beast in the back seat.

"Yeah, well, it's going to take a whole lot more beauty sleep to fix _that_." Gail peers through the grill into the back seat, wrinkling her nose at the sight of his pallid flesh spilling around the sides of his prison-issue scrub pants, and the forest of coils of wiry black hair lining his flesh.

He doesn't even rouse when Ollie offers to buy him a hot dog at the gas station. In fact, he remains so deep in his sleep that Gail, left alone with him while her partner collects lunch, has to fight the urge to check his vitals. She looks back at him again and sighs. What does she care, anyway? No one told her he had to be alive when they got there. Although she is supposing it is probably preferable. But when it comes down to it, there is no way she is getting close enough to touch him, not until she has to, even to check he's alive.

So instead she leans against the car window, feeling the chill of the glass on her cheek and looks out at what there is of a view. Winter has well and truly come to Ontario. The paddocks are iced with a thin layer of snow and the landscape has faded at the edges. Everything loses its distinction, reduced to a white and grey formlessness, at this time of year. Gail loves late Fall when the air is crisp and clean and nightfall has a special smell, but later the mundane consistency of the cold and the lack of colour that is winter starts to get depressing.

Ollie eventually returns the car, laden with food and drink. Gail takes the coffee he proffers, but leaves the food. She's not hungry.

"Think you might want to drive then?" He asks through the set of keys dangling from his mouth. One hand is holding a coffee, the other a hot dog, which already dripping mustard onto the car's interior.

Gail nods, grabs the keys from his mouth and climbs out of the car. It is freezing outside. A brittle wind is cutting straight across the landscape, biting at her skin. She hurries around the front of the car, skirting Oliver and his food as they swap places. She dives into the driver's seat, pulling the door quickly closed and pulling her jacket tighter.

She sits back, gazes back out to the paddock, and waits for Oliver to sort himself out and shut the door. Finally, he shuts the door.

"Do you think those cows get cold?" she asks, watching a cluster of the herd huddle along the fence line near the road, by some trees, while other remain scattered across the stretch of snow.

"I have absolutely no idea, Peck." Oliver tells her through his mouthful. He sits there frowning and chewing for a moment, staring at the cows and clearly thinking something out. "But I do believe that might be the strangest question you have ever asked me." He nods. "Yes, yes it is."

"Okay, I was just _wondering_." Gail shrugs. "Horses get those blanket things in winter. Cows don't get anything. Horses are _spoilt_." She adds, eyes narrowed.

Oliver turns to her. "You know what I find fascinating about you, Peck? I've seen you in action. You have all the sympathy in the world for the vulnerable and the weak- but everyone else, those that thrive and prosper?" He grins, "They earn only your ire."

"Pretty much." Gail shrugs. Sounds about right.

She starts the engine, switches on the heater and returns the car to the quiet stretch of highway.

"Canada's got a lot of cows. There are over three hundred thousand cows in Ontario alone. Did you know that, Peck?"

"No," she says, raising an eyebrow "I don't even know why _you_ know that."

He finishes his hot dog, and then starts in on hers. Gail wrinkles her nose. The smell of mustard and pig is making her feel slightly queasy. She wonders if she is getting sick. Food smells rarely bother her. It is too cold to open the windows, so she waits it out for him to finish eating. Luckily, Oliver knows how to eat, and he is quickly finished, balling up the rubbish and tossing it back into the bag at his feet.

"How is that forensics friend of yours?" He asks, taking a sip of his coffee and starting in on an apple he pulls from his pocket.

"Fine." Not Oliver, too. Too many people want to talk about Holly, Gail thinks, changing lanes to avoid a combine chugging down the road at half-speed.

"And how are your mom and dad?"

"Oliver … _what_?" she shoots a brief, eyebrow-raised stare at him, before turning back to the road.

"I don't know," Oliver shrugs, "I thought we could try our hand at normal person conversation today."

"We are not normal people." Gail takes a sip of her coffee. It is cold already.

"You are absolutely right, my dear. My bad." He bites into his apple with relish. "Just trying to mix things up a little. Don't want things to get stale."

Luckily, right then, the witness more than proves he is alive when he turns to rest his head on the back of the seat and starts snoring loudly. The sound bellows from the back seat as they drive the last stretch of highway back into Toronto, a lengthy grunt, followed by a drawn-out sonorous moan. Oliver's answer is to play his power ballads- loud. Gail's answer is to want to kill both of them. Instead, for the sake of her sanity and her desire not to go to prison, she edges the volume down and asks Oliver about how his plans for his dream retirement boat are going. It never fails as a conversation starter.

And finally it is back to the city to deliver the witness, back to the station to change. Then to finish off that day with a little tequila-punctuated gaming marathon with Chris at home, with a housework wager thrown in to make it interesting. And, once again, Gail has another day in the bag.

**As ever, thanks for your reviews and feedback if you have left some- it is muchly appreciated!**


	27. Chapter 27: Gail

**Day three: Ticketing blitz.**

Frank sends them off for a whole day of booking people for jaywalking.

Boring, but steady work if you can get it, Gail supposes.

"Okay people, let's remind citizens of this fine city how to walk the streets safely." Frank claps his hands together. "Patrol assignments are on the board."

"Safety, my ass," Traci mutters as Frank strides out of the meeting room. "Sounds like the city is in desperate need of some revenue this month."

"I understand speeding blitzes. People speed, they crash, people get hurt." Someone chimes in. "But jaywalking? I mean, _come on_, it's barely a crime. I'm police and I jaywalk."

Frankly, Gail doesn't really care what they do today. She heads over and scans the board for her name. There it is, in the shift admin's best whiteboard scrawl.

_Nick Collins. _

That'd be right.

Gail presses her lips together and makes her exit. As soon as she is out of the room, on her own, she sighs and shuts her eyes for a long moment. At least it is not Andy, she tells herself.

She hurries to the equipment room, grabs her gear and heads out to the parking lot. Nick is already there, standing in the cold, his jacket zipped up to his chin, the car keys in his gloved hand.

"Hey." He holds them out to her as she approaches. A conciliatory gesture, Gail guesses.

"Hey." Gail takes them and unlocks the car, throwing her bag into the boot. Nick follows suit. They climb inside. Gail turns the key in the ignition and flicks on the heater straight away.

Nick consults the piece of paper he has drawn from his pocket. "Uh, we're on Gerrard, on the shopping strip, and then Eglinton for the first hours or two. Then Hearst and then Eastern."

Gail nods and puts the car in reverse. They drive to their first posting in silence.

In fact, for the first few hours they work together, it is in silence. Gail doesn't mind. She is pretty sure Nick doesn't either. One of the few things she and Nick actually ever had in common was their mutual love of long tracts of time with few or no words. It wasn't like they didn't ever talk, but they both shared a love of quiet, too.

And Gail could use a little quiet. Yesterday, driving with Oliver and the snoring prisoner, had been strangely amusing, and exactly what Gail had needed in filling up her head. But today she feels a little like has no energy left for it. Today, she could happily spend a few hours just staring into the distance, thinking sweet, complete nothing. And strangely, of all people at work, Nick is just the person she might have a chance at doing that with.

Strange too, given that this is one of the first times they have been in close proximity since breaking up. It seems like it ought to be tenser here in this car, as though all of what has happened between them should be hanging in the air like a like a heavy grey cloud. But it is simply not there. Gail has no idea where all the hurt and anger has gone, but it is not here. Not right now, anyway. In fact there is only what Gail would describe as a tranquil, kind of passive carefulness between them as they sit together drinking the coffees he has bought and waiting their cue to get out of the car and book someone.

Gail ponders the unusual peace in the car as she watches a man in the next parking space wrestle a screaming toddler into his car seat, the kid screaming and arching his back every time the man gets him near the seat. The man is red faced, clearly flustered, but patient. Gail admires his tenacity, wondering if she will ever have the patience for children.

Maybe it is a delayed reaction thing. She is not sure and not sure she cares. She knows she ought to feel more disturbed by the fact she feels so little anger or hurt— or anything, really— while sitting here with Nick. But the spectre of Nick and Andy that had loomed so large in the dying days of their relationships has begun to occupy little to no real estate in her mind these last weeks. It is hard to bring them back. And frankly, she is kind of happy to leave it that way because she also knows that if she thinks too much about the reason why Nick's presence isn't hurting so much, why Nick has barely been on her mind, she will have to think about the thing that she is trying her damnedest not to let hurt her.

She steals a quick glance at him through the rear view mirror. Nick seems sad, though. And Gail knows it is not about her. Not one bit. And just as weirdly, that doesn't bother her either.

Gail hasn't been paying a hell of a lot of attention to Nick or to Andy since the shooting. She has had enough on her mind. She is aware that something is wrong between them, and it is probably about Sam— it is always about Sam when it comes t Andy. And now, with what has happened, she would be stunned if it wasn't.

She knows she should be taking a little evil pleasure in the fact that Nick is looking a little lost puppy-ish, and that it is probably because he is dealing with the world of hurt that was inevitable when the epic natrue of the Sam and Andy unending romantic melodrama reared its head, coming between whatever he and Andy have started.

But she doesn't.

For some reason, unlike in the past where she might have taken pleasure in his pain, she only feels sorry for him. She knows what it is like to feel like Nick, when you realise you have absolutely zero power or control over someone's ability to not choose you. She's been there. She's used to be the one not being chosen. Nick chose Andy. Heck, even Chris chose Dov. So, while her sense of dignity won't let her show it, she can't help feeling the teensiest bit sorry for Nick in this moment.

Of course, it is not enough sympathy for Gail to ask him about him and Andy, or if he is okay. Definitely not. But enough to leave the hurt and the bitterness that she could let exist between them if she really actually felt like punishing him outside the warmth and comfort of the car, so they can just do their job together and in doing so, leave enough room for the peace and the quiet they both seem to need today.

She wonders if it is connected to what Oliver said to her yesterday, about her willingness to sympathise with the weak, while remaining completely intolerant of the strong. Maybe, she thinks, resting her head on the back of the seat. Just maybe Oliver is, once again, right.

The police work is quick and dirty, too, a cursory exercise.

They sit in the car, wait and watch, and jump out to hand out tickets to people who cross the road instead of walking the extra stretch to the intersection at the corner of State. They are always so surprised. Like that persons earlier, they can barely fathom that jaywalking is against the law, at least in any way they can be bothered thinking about. There is an incredible amount of exasperation and surprise as she writes out a ticket to people who can barely register that they have broken a law. And, although she'd never let on, Gail is sympathetic. In her heart of hearts she believes grown ups should be able to decide when and where they cross a road.

Then, when they have been parked there long enough for everyone around to be aware enough to spread the word that there are police on a ticketing spree, they move on.

Around midday, they pick up salad rolls on their way to the next spot. Once there, they sit in the car eating and watching the rest of Toronto rushing around, buying lunch and hurrying through the errands they must complete before they have to get back to their offices and shops.

"There's one. The woman in the red skirt." Gail points at a woman who is about to step from between two parked cars. "And someone needs to tell her never to wear patterned tights with flat shoes— not if you don't want your legs to look chunky."

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Nick tells her, polishing off his roll and rubbing the crumbs off his hands. "But I am pretty sure fashion advice is not in our job description."

Gail shrugs.

They both watch in silence as the woman contemplates the traffic and then, at the last moment, retreats back onto the street to look at something in a shop window.

"You know what? She kind of reminds me of—who's that aunt of yours— the one who made pass at me at dinner that time? Remember?"

"That's got to be Aunt Lucy." She frowns. "I can't believe I invited you to a dinner with Lucy there."

"Invited me?" Nick tells her. "What do you mean? You _made_ me come."

"I did. Why?" Gail frowns. " We usually try to maintain minimum exposure when it comes to Aunt Lucy and the outside world."

"I don't know," he shrugs. "All I remember is that you were mad at me, and going to the dinner was my punishment."

"Well, I'm sorry about that. Actually," she turns and gives him a quick look. "Maybe I'm not sorry about that."

He shrugs, as if to say fair enough.

Gail casts back her mind, trying to remember that particular Peck dinner, but she can't remember the occasion. She is not sure if that speaks more to her memory, or to how much alcohol she tends to imbibe at these family dinners.

"What was I mad about?" she asks.

"I don't know." Nick shrugs.

Gail leans against the car door, playing with her earring and staring out into the now falling snow.

"Do you not know why I was mad because I was mad at you pretty much all the time?" Gail is not sure why she is asking this. She knows the answer.

"You did get mad a lot." He concedes.

Gail nods. She knows. Besides, Chris has pretty much told her the same thing before.

"What did I get mad about?" She asks him, automatically, as if she is taking a survey and this is the prescribed follow-up question.

"I don't know." Nick shrugs again. "You were there, remember?"

"Tell me." _Please explain your answer in fifty words or less_. She watches a man cut straight through the traffic and duck into a café opposite, but doesn't move. It's snowing hard now. She can't really blame him.

"Sometimes you were mad because I was late, or because I forgot something we were supposed to do," Nick scrunches up the wrapping from his roll and starts to slowly un-scrunch it. "Sometimes you were just mad and I never knew why. Sometimes I don't think you knew why."

"So what did you do when I got like that?" Gail feels a tightening in her throat. For some reason, hearing this makes her feel the teensiest bit like crying.

"I did nothing. I just had to wait until you were over it. There was nothing I could do."

"I'm sorry." She says, blinking and they both know it is not really an apology but an end to the conversation.

Nick picks up the schedule.

"I think it's time we moved to Eastern."

Gail nods and starts the car.

They finish their last hours of the assignment in that same complacent silence they started it with. Then, when their shift is done, Gail drives them back to the station. As she is climbing out of the car back at 15, Nick says her name.

"Gail?"

She turns around and sticks her head back in the car door.

"Mmhmm?"

"Are you alright?"

Gail shrugs. "I have absolutely no idea." She tosses the keys to him and turns and walks away, leaving him in the car.

Traci asks her exactly the same question when she enters the locker room and finds Gail sitting there, dressed to go home, staring at her hands.

This time Gail is more prepared.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I dunno. You looked kind of, I don't know, pensive or something" She opens her locker and pulls out her bag. "I thought maybe, you know, working with Nick … ?"

Gail shakes her head.

"I'm fine."

And if they are talking about Andy and Nick, it is not even a lie.

Traci drags a long woollen scarf out of her locker and wraps it around her neck and shoulders, tucking it into the opening of her coat and pulling out her hair from under it. She turns to Gail, pulling her bag higher onto her shoulder.

"I wanted to say, Gail, all those times I was asking you what was up with you and Andy, I really, _really_ didn't know, and I'm so sorry."

Gail puts up a hand to stop her. "I'm fine." She says again, hoping Traci will back off.

Traci turns, as if to leave. She takes a step toward the door but then turns back to face Gail.

"What do you say? Shall we drink?"

"Yes." Gail says, taking a deep breath and pushing herself off the bench. "We shall."

And so they do.

Day three down.


	28. Chapter 28: Holly

**Day four: Periods of wet snow until evening.**

They are huddled at the counter, struggling to eat lunch with minimal elbowroom and barely any service either. It's snowing, and it is that wet, half-rain, half-snow that makes you really stop and consider if you actually need to go outside at all before you leave the building. Today the two of them decided no, that even though it isn't the best eating place around, they would opt for the café attached to the lab rather than venture into this miserable weather.

The only trouble is, it seems everyone at the lab has had the same idea, because the place is a mob scene and their punishment for leaving the office a fraction after midday is that they have to make do with the last two spots in the place, a teeny patch of counter right in front of the cash register.

"I know the one. I've seen her. Kind of stern." Thao stirs a sugar into her coffee and raises her eyebrows. "She's beautiful, though."

"I know." Holly sighs, lifting her glasses and rubbing her sore eyes. "But, like I said, she's kind of difficult. No," she corrects herself. "That's not entirely fair. She's a bit wounded, I think."

"Which makes her difficult?"

Holly nods. She stares into her coffee. She actually cannot believe she is having this conversation. She cannot believe she is having it at this place, on a lunchbreak, or with Thao. But she is.

Holly is not a real problem-talker. She's usually pretty good at working out what she needs, how to solve her personal issues for herself. And generally, she has been in relationships with women who are able to participate in resolving issues. But not this thing with Gail.

But this time, for some reason, Holly feels a need to talk out this thing she is having with Gail to someone. Maybe it is partly because Gail herself won't talk to her. And also, although Holly is pretty sure she has really done all she can do about Gail, and she now just has to wait, she still can't help feeling like she would like to have that confirmed as the advisable thing to do. Besides, Holly concedes to herself, maybe she just wants a little sympathy because this total and utter radio silence at Gail's end is kind of depressing and unsettling.

She knew she wouldn't be hearing from Gail quickly, but it doesn't stop her thinking about her, missing her and spending a touch too much time going over everything and wondering if maybe she could have reacted differently at some point. It is distracting and it is making the days long. So when Holly decided this morning, after another restless night, that she needed to get this thing off her chest, it was just a matter of figuring out whom to talk to.

Usually that person would be Nan. Solid, reliable, wondrous Nan, the friend Holly has loved so much and for so long. They have been through every kind of life and love drama together since university when they met at a party and bonded over, of all things, a love of a cheesy teen television show. It had been friend-love at first sight. Even now, with Nan in Chicago for six months already, their friendship easily survives the 'long' distance. Usually Nan would be the first person Holly would call.

But in this particular instance she knows telling Nan might not be ideal.

What will get in the way of her closest friend's ability to help is her extreme case of Straight Girl Fear, so much so that Holly knows that the minute Nan hears the part where Gail has never been with a woman before, it will colour any interpretation Nan can make of what is going on with Gail. She will just put the blinkers on and blame all the problems on that.

Holly has patiently tried to point out to Nan that her troubles might be blamed just as easily on her penchant for The Unavailable as it is Straight Girls. As attractive to women as Nan is with her tough girl swagger, her beautiful brown eyes and her quick wits, she has managed to leave behind her a string of failed relationships. Holly knows, but can't seem to get Nan to know, this is simply because of her inability to find women who are emotionally available to her.

Nan is so effortlessy and unconsciously charming that she can get even the straightest girls reconsidering their proclivities for a minute. She also can make women who are already in steady, monogamous relationships think that maybe they aren't quite enough for them any more. The problem is, these changes of tide for these women don't always seem to last. Most of the time Nan doesn't seem to care, but recently, there have been one or two who have hurt her badly. And now, after a long nursing of wounds, Nan has thrown herself back into the dating pool with a quick-fix strict no-straight-girl ruling. And Holly is pretty sure she will extend that to her best friend, too, should it come up.

It's funny, because if there is one thing she is fairly certain of, Holly is pretty damn sure that despite that conversation last week, that Gail is having very little trouble dealing with the changing terms of her sexuality. It seems to be the least of her problems. This is something else. Something different, bigger. It seems to be all about her ability to trust and love, not about who she will trust and love. The fact that Gail was formerly straight is probably at this point, the least of Holly's problems.

But Holly is not sure she can make Nan see that, or if she has the energy to try right now.

The other thing that makes her hesitant to talk to Nan is because right now Gail's behaviour right now really doesn't make her look good on paper. And if Holly is going to commit herself to anyone emotionally, she wants Nan to like her. Even if she wasn't hedgy about the straight girl thing, Nan's protectiveness of Holly, paired with Gail's questionable behaviour, might make it difficult for her to see past the question of whether it is worth pursuing at all to a point where she can advise Holly on if she is going about things the right way.

What she needs, she decided this morning, was someone more distanced from Holly's personal life, but who is close enough, and knows her well enough to care. And that person is Thao.

Holly and Thao had made a beeline for each other the minute they met at the lab. Holly had already been there a month when Thao returned from maternity leave to her old post in the blood lab. They instantly forged a connection in that way people do at work when they spot someone like-minded and kindred enough that you know that they will make the working week easier. Holly had been instantly impressed with Thao's unruffled calm, by her quiet but out-there sense of humour and by her incredible intelligence. Thao is cool and chic in a way that Holly will never, ever be, but it is not a threatening or exclusive cool. Holly will admit to herself that there were slightly crush-y feelings earlier on— who wouldn't have? —but they slowly evaporated into an enduring affection for the woman who has become her staunchest work ally over the years

So that is why they are now sitting in this café over a pretty average lunch, huddled against the dull roar of lunchtime trade. And why Holly has tried her best to tell Thao the story of her and Gail so far.

When they have finished eating, the stack their plates together in the small space in front of them because no one seems to want to clear them, and finish their coffees.

"You know when you meet someone, and you completely connect, so there is part of you that knows them in that you _get _them," Holly tells her, after finishing the briefest possible version of the story. "But at the same time you don't _know_ know them, so you don't know how they are going to react to anything?"

Thao smiles and smooths her dark hair back behind her ear.

"I don't know if I am the right person to talk about new relationships with. I have been with Jeremy for nine years now. I can't even remember what it is like to be in the early days of a relationship." She frowns. "But it sounds like this woman has some fierce need for certainty in her life."

"Yeah, exactly," Holly rests her chin on her hand and contemplates. "I think she's had a bunch of relationships that haven't been too great, though I don't know too much about it."

Thao nods. "And it sounds like maybe she's not too in touch with her feelings, either. And that maybe she is not aware of this fact?"

Holly nods. She has forgotten how perceptive her friend can be. She only has to hear half a story, ever, to grasp all of it.

"I think she might know a little, but not really."

"Jeremy is like that. Even though he is incredibly chilled most of the time, when he gets upset, sometimes it's like he doesn't know why, even when it is glaringly obvious to me. Not always, but sometimes. I don't think his parents were too emotionally available. It's like he knows he's having feelings, but he can't place them or something."

"So, what do you do?" Holly watches a waiter ignore the stack of dishes in front of them and instead go and take a drink of her own coffee, left next to the register in front of them.

"Sometimes I have to actually point it out to him, tell him why he is angry, or sad or frustrated. But you can't always do that, either, especially if he's being completely unreasonable. Then it just becomes an excuse. He has to get there on his own." Thao laughs, tearing at her empty sugar packet. "It sounds like I am talking about one of my kids, not my husband."

Holly chuckles and sits back, making space for the waiter who has finally come to clear their table. "I wish I was as wise to these things as you."

"Ha," Thao says, smiling ruefully. "I'm only tuned to it now because I have been with him so long. I know that at first I had trouble understanding his behaviour. In fact, you seem to have it more figured out than I did back then."

"Maybe, but I still don't know what to do." Holly frowns. "I really like her, Thao. I do. And I have no seeming choice about that. So I need to figure out what to do."

"Do you think she cares about you?" Thao takes her napkin from her lap and neatly folds it, placing it on the counter.

"Yes. I do." Holly surprises even herself with the sureness of her response. But she _does_ know that Gail cares. She also knows that Gail just has to figure out what is worth more to her, her fear or her feelings.

"Do you want to know what I think you should do?" Thao says gently, placing her hands flat on the counter.

"Yes, please." Holly tells her, grabbing her arm.

Thao smiles. "Exactly what you are doing. If I have learned one thing from being with Jeremy, it is patience. You can't always help them there. And hopefully, eventually, she'll get there on her own." Thao lays her hand briefly over Holly's and then lets it go. "You just sit tight."

Holly nods slowly, running her spoon in slow circles in the bottom of her cup. This is both exactly what she wanted to hear, and exactly what she didn't want to hear.

"Damn." Holly sighs a deep sigh, folding her arms over each other on the counter and lowering her chin onto her hands, frowning. "I thought you might say that." She groans. "How long am I going to have to wait?"

Instead of an answer she feels the sympathetic pat right between her shoulder blades.

"No really?" She turns to Thao.

Thao chuckles. "Sorry to laugh, but I have never, ever, seen you like this." She pats her back again. "Poor Holly."

"Uh huh. Poor Holly." Holly agrees, dropping her chin back onto her hands. "Not sure I have ever been like this."


	29. Chapter 29: Gail

**Day Five: Stern St Apartments, surveillance**

If Days Three saw her quiet and contemplative, and Day Four saw her tired and mean and stingy, Day five, which chases yet another night of drinking and forgetting and an uneasy, quick-to-wakefulness sleep, is a blow to the senses. Gail wakes up feeling drained before she even leaves her bed.

Day five starts out hard, and just keeps getting harder.

The boy assigned to work with Traci and Gail in the van are rookies. Real rookies too. Gail doesn't ask them how long they have been on the job, but she can guess from the way they talk that they are only two or three months into the job. Experienced enough for what is demanded of them today, but definitely green. All they have to do on this assignment is sit there, quietly, huddled in this van outside the Stern street apartments. And, if what Guns and Gangs think is going to happen to today happens, they have to help catch some people if and when they exit the building.

Gail is pretty much on her own. Traci has her surly on. Something about a mix up on a case she was heading. She's frantically crouched against the back of the driver's seat doing paperwork in her lap while they wait for the deal and for their call to move. Gail sits back against the van door, her elbows on her knees, her head against the hard metal, nursing her headache, and listens to the rookies chat, anticipating the action and trying their hardest to be cool in front of these two women they have suddenly found themselves answerable to for a shift. The tall one is the leader, she can tell, but probably only holds that rank by sheer force of his ego. He's probably the best— or at least the bravest—of them and he's cocky about it. Gail dislikes him immediately. The skinny blond one talks the most, but it seems like nervous chat, like he is drowning out the doubts in his head with everything he puts out there. The other one, the big, broad one with curly hair doesn't say much at all. He looks like he gave up trying to break the banter barrier with these two a long time ago. He listens to their chat, occasionally adding something, but mostly staring at his hands or plucking at the button on his sleeve.

Every now and then one of them flicks a quick glance in her direction. She knows her silence, and the fact she is openly watching them and listening to them is making them slightly uneasy, but she doesn't care. Why should she?

Eventually, inevitably, though, the boys run out of conversation and the van is returned to silence as they wait. Taking advantage of the hush, Gail shuts her eyes, resting, feeling the slow beat of blood around her body and wishing she'd had a good night's sleep. Tonight, she promises herself. Tonight she'll go straight home and sleep away the last four days. She feels the van shift slightly under her as one of the rookies adjusts his sitting position on the hard, dirty floor. The movement makes her queasy. She wishes she knew where she left her water bottle. She slowly opens her eyes and finds Traci looking at her from the other side of the van, a Traci look on her face.

"What?" Gail rubs her eyes.

"Nothing. You look tired."

"I _am_ tired."

"Are you okay?"

"Stop asking me that." Gail turns to look across the van through to the front windscreen, where she can see the wind tossing clumps of snow from the branches of an elm.

"Okay, but…"

They both jump as the tinny sound of voices bursts into the van. One of the Rookie has put his radio on the wrong channel. It's the skinny one.

"Switch it off or I will kill you," Traci tells him before Gail can.

Flushing red, he fumbles with his radio. Traci looks at Gail, wide-eyed, shaking her head. The tall one smirks. Gail throws him a look but he doesn't notice.

Traci returns to her work. Gail sits up, stretching her aching back and neck. She better be awake now, for when they get the call to move.

The boys start talking quietly again, about the job. It is the first time they have been assigned to help Guns and Gangs, it seems. She half-listens to them go over what they learned in briefing and remembers how excited she and the others got too, after the initial nerves, every time a new kind of operation or crime or experience was thrown their way. They were like kids in a candy store, champing at the bit to partake of every new experience. It is funny, Gail thinks, the rookie trajectory, from frightened, to excited, to all of a sudden capable. That's all Gail feels about this task now. She's not nervous or excited, just competent and ready, despite her exhaustion. She hopes jaded is not next.

As soon as Traci gives them the signal, Gail turns and pushes open the door. She feels the weight of the eager officers behind her as she jumps from the van and runs quickly around the apartment block. She can hear the heavy footsteps of the big one, who she has been assigned the alley with her, just behind. When they get to the entrance, she reaches back and waves him past her, to the other side of the fire escape where a tall wire fence blocks passage through to the next street, and positions herself near the entrance to the street. This way she can put herself in the direction any oncoming person is likely are most likely to run. Not knowing this kid's capabilities or his speed, she feels better that way.

She adopts her stance, raises her gun and sweeps her eyes over the windows of the bottom half of the building. The apartment they are raiding is on the second floor, so she expects if anyone comes this way at all, it will be from there or nearby. Of course, Steve and his people are hoping to get to the apartment and get it contained without anyone escaping, but still, you never know and that is why they are here. She listens carefully to the sounds of the mid-afternoon. She can't hear any discernable noise from the apartment except feet except the occasional bang and footstep, but these could be the everyday sounds of the apartments block. She has no idea.

The alleyway smells, predictably, like old garbage and pee. It also smells, less predictably, like old fryer oil. She wrinkles her nose and wishes she'd chosen not to position herself downwind. She flicks her eyes over to her rookie. He is standing, ready, mirroring her stance, about twenty meters away. She can see the rise and fall of his belly as he breathes. He is a little too close to the outside of the laneway than she would like, rather than centred so no one can slip by him and over the fence, as she would like, but it is too late to talk until they are given the clear.

Just as she is considering waving him at him, gesturing to him to move closer to the centre, the door to the second floor bursts open, smashing loudly against the brick wall. Footsteps clatters down the short stretch of metal steps and the next thing Gail knows she is locking eyes with a short, thick guy in a baseball cap. She sees his eyes widen as he registers her presence.

"Stop!" she yells. He doesn't. Instead he turns tail and runs toward the rookie. The rookie stiffens, and raises his gun higher. The guy keeps coming at him. Gail sees the panic in his eyes, recognises the fear. _No, he won't_, she thinks, and then realises she was wrong.

"Don't!" Gail screams at the kid. But it is too late. He pulls the trigger. The bullet seems to whizz past the guy's head, lodging somewhere in the wall behind him. The guy spins again. Gail catches the look of sheer terror on his face as he takes off toward her. He runs in her direction like panicked, stampeding cattle. Just as he is about to try and ram past her, he trips on the uneven stones and falls forward, straight into her. The weight of his shoulder colliding with the soft flesh next to her hip is excruciating, and it is all she can do not to cry out loud. Gritting her teeth she automatically drops down so her knee is pressed into the small of his back, pinning him onto the ground. He struggles underneath her, still panicked and kicking.

"Don't move," she gasps, although she can't blame him. He is terrified. "Come here!" she yells to the rookie, but he is just standing there, the gun hanging from his hand, a look of terror on his face.

Gail hears footsteps sprinting around the corner and hopes it is help. Still struggling to breathe from the blow, she places her arm over the back of the teenager's neck, pinning his face to the pavement and quickly looks up. It is Traci and the rookies. Thank goodness. The tall one immediately rushes over, throwing himself onto the bottom half of the flailing teenager. _Freaking hero_, Gail thinks.

"He's armed?" Traci calls to her, looking around for evidence of a gun. "I heard a shot." Gail just shakes her head and flicks her head in the direction of boy rookie who is still just standing there.

Traci's eyes widen. Gail nods. Traci turns, sees him standing there with his gun out, and walks quickly over to him.

As soon as the tall one gets the guy contained, Gail pushes herself up, fighting the urge to use his shoulder as leverage. She stands there, bent over, breathing hard. Before she can return to fully upright, a wave of nausea passes over her.

"You okay?" she hears someone behind her ask.

"I think I'm going to be sick." Gail gasps, walking over to the tall fence and resting her hand on her stomach spasms. She breathes slowly, waiting to see if the tide is going to turn in her favour or not.

"I'm going to take him round to the front." It's the tall one. He has the guy, who looks a different kind of scared now, cuffed and standing.

The rookie has a weird looking on his face. It takes a second for Gail to realise he thinks she is sick because of fear or the shot, not because she has suffered a human projectile to the guts. He thinks she is freaking out.

She just nods quickly, so he will go away, and returns to trying to breathe as slowly as possible, clutching the fence for balance. Her stomach is roiling. She is pretty sure the four-day hangover probably isn't helping things either. Eventually, when her insides calm and she feels safe enough to stand, she straightens. The alley is empty now. Even the kid and his gun and Traci are gone.

"That idiot. That stupid, stupid idiot," she mutters as she gingerly walks back to the front of the building, wondering if his career is over before it started.

As soon as she is back to the street, where a number of police cars are now crowded around the building, she straightens up, trying to assume a normal stance. Just doing so hurts. She whimpers quietly to herself. She is going to have a hell of a bruise tomorrow.

When she gets back to the van she looks around for her rookie, but he is nowhere to be seen. Poor kid, she thinks. Gail remembers the fear she felt that early day as a rookie when Noelle had planted her in the backyard of an apartment building, waiting for a shooter, and had told her not to move. She remembers the petrifying fear she felt when the shooter actually did appear, the way her legs seemed to fix to the ground as she watched him, gun clutched in her hand, knowing she had every chance to catch him if she could just give chase. Instead she'd just stood there and watched him spin and run away from her. Her orders not to move was her excuse when Noelle had asked why she hadn't gone after him, but Gail knew she probably couldn't have anyway. She was terrified. It was the same reason this kid had needlessly pulled the trigger, their reactions to fear had just been different.

Traci emerges from the crowd of police standing near the entrance of the apartment block and jogs quickly over to Gail.

"Hey. Things went a bit crazy around there?"

Gail nods. "Where's the kid?"

"He's waiting in a car. He's got to give a statement, do the whole business for an investigation."

"But he didn't hurt anyone."

"Doesn't matter, apparently. Lucky he has terrible aim, though." Traci says, frowning, "Someone will want to get a full statement from you, too, back at the station. You mind if I get the short version now?"

"The short version is kind of the only version." Gail shrugs. "The guy comes out of the building, sees me, turns and runs toward the kid. The kid gets a fright, shoots, misses. Guy turns for me again, runs, trips and I get a human battering ram to the stomach and collar him." She shrugs again.

"Ouch." Traci flinches. "You okay?"

Gail nods. "Can I talk to him?"

Traci shakes her head. "I am pretty sure you can't until after the statements are done"

Gail nods. Of course, freaking protocol. It's probably good. She has no idea what she'd say anyway.

"He just panicked, Trace. You know?" Gail folds her arms across her chest and leans back against the van. "I saw he was going to do it, but I couldn't stop him."

"Of course you couldn't stop him. It all happened too quickly."

Gail sighs. Traci thinks she is trying to defend her own part in the event, that she is worried about the consequences for _her_. The thought makes Gail feel a little bit sick. She is not. She is trying to help him. She doesn't bother trying to explain.

"Do you think he'll lose his job?" she asks instead.

"I have no idea." Traci tells her. "We better get going." Traci tilts her head in the direction of the scene. "They're making a move."

All the cars, now full of the apartment occupants, are starting to pull away, headed back to booking. Gail can see the kid's rookie pals clustered on the footpath opposite, talking quietly. She hopes they are nice to him, that they really are his friends. And she hopes that they don't think they are inured from the same thing just because what they think the worse— the worst of their rookie fears— has now happened. She thinks of all the mistakes that she and Chris and Andy and Dov and even Traci have made since starting. Nope, those boys still have a long way to go.

"Remember the day we started at 15?" she asks Traci ,as they climb into the van. "Were you scared?"

"Kind of." Traci shrugged. "I think I was more excited, though. Were you?"

"No, not really." Gail says, gingerly lowering herself into the seat.

But she was. She had been terrified.

It had been such a surprising sudden-onset terror, too. All through police training she had been fine and she'd even liked it the challenges of all they did and learned. She had no idea at all that she would be scared until that first morning, when, before she even opened her eyes, she was seized with a gripping terror of the day ahead. There she was, back in her parents' house, where she'd moved while she undertook her training, realising that learning was okay, but the thought of actually performing?

Not so much, it seemed. She lay there bathed in shafts of filtered early morning light paralysed with the thought she would now have to go out there, somehow, before the eyes of everyone who knew who she was and who she was related to, and _execute_. Never had she wanted more to remain inside the claustrophobic confines of her adolescent bedroom. In fact, she already knew that if her father hadn't been there to drive her to work, or her mother to call and remind her not to screw up, there was a reasonable chance Gail may have never made it to that first day at 15.

It had taken months for that feeling to go away. That feeling of being constantly scared, of wanting to freeze or duck or hide, because the humiliation of choking was better than making an epic mistake like this kid has done today.

She rests her head on her hand as they slide away from the scene and head back to the station. She wonders what she can say in her statement that will help this kid. Will it help to tell them she knows what fear can do, that it can cause you to make bad judgements, to pull the trigger too quickly, before you even know that something is wrong?

She hopes so.

To be continued...

**Day five occurs across two chapters. The next part will be up shortly, if it is not already. **


	30. Chapter 30: Gail

She is trudging slowly back to the locker room, statement made, when her brother falls into step with her, seemingly from out of nowhere.

"I heard what happened. Stupid kid."

"He made a mistake." Gail shrugs. "Leave him alone."

"Trace said you were hurt. You okay?" He swipes a cookie from a plate next to the coffee station as they pass.

Gail nods.

"I'm fine. It's going to be an epic bruise, though," she tells him.

"Make sure you send me a pic."

"What? Oh yeah." She has forgotten about their long running war wound competition. She is pretty sure this is going to win Non-blood Wound of the Year.

Steve pauses near the steps that lead up to his office. "Dinner on Monday?"

"Mmm," Gail responds, in what passes for a Peck 'I'd love to'.

"Ping's?" He stuffs the rest of the cookie in his mouth.

"I hate Ping's." she tells him, gently tugging at her belt where it is pressing on the tender beginnings of her bruise.

"You do not." He throws his wallet from one hand to the other and back, chewing on the cookie. "The lemongrass and chilli prawns, remember?" he reminds her through his mouthful.

"Oh, yeah." She nods. She loves those prawns, msg and all.

He goes to climb the steps and pauses. "Hey, I saw Holly yesterday, by the way, your Holly."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yup, doing her thing after that gang murder on Osland. I _like_ her." He says with conviction, pausing on the top step. "That lady's got moxie."

"Fascinating." She says, giving her best Gail _whatever_, and walks away.

She slowly heads into the change room, removing her belt and feeling the return of that earlier nausea and sighing. Steve's mention is all it takes for Holly—_your Holly_—to come marching back into her mind, impervious to all the work Gail has done to keep her out. She slowly takes off her uniform piece by piece, trying to make her go away again. Gail is too exhausted, too hung-over and now, too sore, to deal with this too.

At first it is like a slow arm wrestle- one that she's winning. She forces her mind clear and focuses on the task at hand, removing her clothes without hurting herself further. But, as she pulls on her street clothes, treading lightly around her tender hip and stomach, and brushes out her hair and reties it into a messy bun, the momentum swings and Holly is back, pushing at the edges of her mind. And it is like every arm wrestle where the momentum unexpectedly changes: it's hard to get it back. You are fighting hard but nothing is happening. You've lost all that advantage and they have you. And then it is kind of hurting, your arm twisted, your muscles aching with fatigue and you begin to want to lose, just so you can let go and feel the relief of your hand being slammed onto the table and then, finally, released.

Gail drops onto the bench, her sweater in her hands, tears pricking her eyes. She sighs heavily, ignoring the crowd of women around her, bustling between showers and uniforms and shifts and grandiose plans for their night. She's had it. She's tired. She's heartsick and she wants Holly. After all this, all these days of blocking her out, of concentrating on keeping her at bay, now she's back, and Gail know she won't be able to make her go away now.

She sighs again. Freaking Holly. She is relentless. And she is not even here.

Gail bites her lip, wondering what to do about this fact.

For the first time in days, she sends her mind back to the night at the apartment, the night Holly had come over and Gail had ignored her, unable to confront or shift from her own paralysing anger. She knows if anyone treated her like that, she'd be out. It didn't take much for her to walk away from Chris after he froze her out.

And in the past, when she has behaved like that, she has always been able to get away with this behaviour to some extent. In the past, when she had lost it like that and then regretted it, all she'd really had to do was make nice again. Like Nick said, he just waited for her to get over it, whatever it was. Gail is pretty sure that this is not going to fly with Holly.

She remembers sitting in her darkened lounge room, alone, Chris having made his great escape and Holly having quietly making her exit. Gail was left, once again sitting there alone with her own self-isolating anger, such a familiar feeling. She remembers the small beep of her phone on the end table, how she'd picked it up, seen the message was from Holly and ignored it, instead, picking up the control and starting a new game. And now Gail doesn't even know where she stands with Holly because she'd ignored the message.

Over the coming days she still hadn't read it. But she hadn't deleted it either.

She slowly pulls her phone from her back pocket, flicks through her messages until she finds it. Shutting out the noise around her, she takes a deep breath and opens the message.

_Remember what you told me the day we met? You are being that cat up the tree. And I'm pretty sure this counts as creating yourself an emergency situation. Please stay put._

She bites her lip and stares at the message, longer than it takes to read it.

Freaking Holly. Beautiful, wise, probably always-going-to-be-right Holly.

She leans forward, her elbow on her knees, ignoring the discomfort and staring at the lockers in front of her, turning the phone in her hand. If she really tells herself the truth, she knows her rage— her 'emergency'— was a result of finding out that Holly is capable of breaking a heart. Until that moment, Gail know she has been unrealistically been placing Holly in some sort of special category, a place of perfection where she was all about Gail. In some ways Gail had just been thinking that if she was willing to take that risk again so soon, to acknowledge feelings, to be with someone, to suddenly turn around and be with a woman no less, that the story ended with Gail's choice. It had never occurred to Gail until that moment that this was something, however special, that might not start and end with her, that she was entering yet another thing where someone might have the power to not choose her.

She turns the phone slowly over in her hand and reads the message one more time.

But Holly has already chosen her, and in this message she is asking Gail to choose _her_. Maybe that is going to have to be enough for now.

She presses her lips together; fighting tears, and slips her phone back into her pocket. She stares down at her hands, listening to the noise around her die out as everyone slips out for the night or the next shift, and wonders how she is going to fix this thing so Holly still wants to choose her after these days of silence.

She hears footsteps entering the locker room, but doesn't look up.

"Uh, excuse me- am I in freaking Groundhog Day or something? Someone tell me, because this scene is getting _real_ familiar."

Gail looks up. It's Traci, standing in the entrance of the locker room, staring at Gail. Gail gives her a small smile, but doesn't respond.

Traci steps over to her locker, gives Gail a concerned look, and yanks it open. "I'd ask you if you are okay," she says into her locker, " But I am not allowed to ask that any more."

"Traci, did you and Jerry ever fight?"

"Ever fight?" Traci smirks, pulling her hat. "Only all the time."

"Really?" Gail frowns. She had always thought they looked so smugly cosy together.

"Of course. Some were just, you know, disagreements, but sure, we fought." She shrugs.

"How did you end them?"

Traci shrugs. "Well that depended on how bad it was and whose fault it was."

"What if it was yours?"

You know what Gail?" Traci grabs her bag from her locker and throws it onto the bench while she yanks on her overcoat. "I like you. I like you a lot more than I ever thought I was going to when we first met. But you don't make things easy on people." She pauses while she fastens the button under her chin and then turns to look at her. "So I am going to go out to a limb and say maybe you might need to apologise for something?"

"Yeah, but what do you _say_?"

What is it about Traci that Gail doesn't mind her knowing her silly weaknesses and inadequacies?

"Oh come on, Gail. Are you kidding?" Traci laughs. "You just say you're sorry, you try and explain yourself, and then be ready to accept whatever you get." She picks up her bag and looks at Gail. "You have apologised before, right? Like, in your life?

"Yes." Gail shrugs, smiling. "Maybe."

"Yeah, well, good luck with that," Traci says in a voice that tells Gail she doesn't have a whole lot of faith. "I am off to have dinner with your stupid brother. Good luck with whoever's been lucky enough to need an apology from Gail Peck."

She walks out of the locker room, them both knowing full well who Gail needs to apologise to, but knowing Gail is nowhere near ready to talk about it.

And Gail decides that maybe, just maybe, the best thing for her is to dive in blind. She pulls her phone from her pocket, flips through her contacts until she finds Holly's name and dials. The phone rings and rings, Gail's stomach sinking with every unanswered tone. Eventually, it goes to Holly's messages and Gail hangs up. She doesn't want to hear Holly's voice until she is actually hearing her voice.

Slowly, gingerly, Gail turns and kicks one leg over the bench, lowering herself backward until she is stretched across its worn wooden surface. She places her phone on sternum and tucks her hands under her head and closes her eyes. She'll wait right here and keep trying.


	31. Chapter 31: Gail

Gail knocks softly, hold her breath, and waits.

There is no answer. She tries again, hopeful, giving the door another discreet tap. Again she is greeted with nothing but silence.

Then, just as she is about to give up, as she turns back down the wide, brightly lit hallway, the door opens. Gail turns back, her heart beating just a touch faster. There she is, standing there, one hand on the doorknob, the other hanging by her side. Wearing jeans and a blue singlet and nothing on her feet, she looks tousled and sleepy-eyed, even though it is only early evening

"Hey," Holly murmurs, squinting into the light of the hallway. The apartment behind her is dark.

"Hey, uh, I called you … a couple of times…" Gail says, swallowing hard. "But there was no answer." She doesn't say she also went by the lab, hoping maybe Holly was working, and that was what was keeping her from answering her phone. Or that she waited outside a long time outside this apartment block, unable to see Holly's windows from the front of the building to know if she was home or not, or that she sat there debating whether to come up, to show up unannounced. for a good half an hour.

"I think I was asleep…" Holly mutters, pushing her hair back from her face, blinking.

For a moment Gail wonders if Holly is just saying that to cover the fact she hasn't answered her calls. But Holly is not the lying type. And besides, she does look like someone who has just woken up from an unexpected nap: sleepy, slightly bewildered and vulnerable. She just stands there, holding onto the door as if she is still processing Gail's sudden appearance at her door. Gail bites her lip and waits, not wanting to push Holly into her moment of waking- just in case it makes her realises she doesn't want Gail there.

Eventually Holly yawns widely, looks up at Gail through narrow eyes and smiles a quick, almost automatic smile. Gail takes a sharp breath inward, realising how much she has missed Holly and her smile, even while she has been doing her desperate best not to think about her at all.

And trust Holly to smile, Gail thinks —even at Gail who has ignored her for days, who has been a giant asshole, and who has now, seemingly, woken her up to answer the door to her.

She steps forward, deciding it might, just might, on the basis of that small offering, be okay to push it further.

"Hey, so, can I come in?" She asks softly, afraid of the answer the minute she asks it.

"Of course," Holly waves her in, stepping aside and clapping her hand over another yawn.

Gail steps awkwardly into the living area and stands next the kitchen bench, not daring to venture further. There are no lights on and only a little light is leaking in through the blinds. She blinks, trying to make out the familiar contours of the room.

"Long day?" she asks, tentative.

"Headache," Holly mutters, rubbing at the space between her eyebrows with the tips of her fingers. She pads slowly over to the lamp in the corner and flicks it on. Gail watches as she pulls the blinds down on the living room window, letting the night become complete in her small apartment. She walks over and leans against the armchair, facing Gail, still rubbing her eyes.

"Are you okay?" Gail asks.

Holly nods, frowning. "I think I just need new glasses." She leans over and picks up a magazine, holding it up. It is something science-y. Gail can tell from the graphics on the cover. "I was supposed to go out, but I came home first to rest. One minute I was reading this, the next there was a knock on the door. I have no idea how long I was out for." She tosses the magazine over onto the couch and sits against the back of the armchair, her hands in her lap. She is facing Gail, but she doesn't look at her.

"Do you want me to, maybe, come back later … or tomorrow or something?" Gail asks, almost hopeful. She is starting to wonder what she is doing here. How she, Gail, the master at making things awful is going to possibly make things okay, especially with Holly already so tired and clearly not feeling great.

Holly lifts her head and looks at Gail, shaking her head, an unreadable expression on her face.

Gail fights the urge to look away. Not because she doesn't want to look at Holly. She does. But because the fact that she cannot tell what Holly is thinking scares her. And she knows she deserves for her not to be thinking anything that is good.

"No, don't go. I'm … I'm glad to see you," Holly finally says, looking down and tracing her finger around the ring on her other hand.

"You shouldn't be." Gail shakes her head, digging her hand into the pockets of her jeans and leaning back against the bench.

"Well, I can't help it." Holly shrugs. "I've missed you. You are very miss-able, it turns out."

A burst of warmth spreads through Gail, starting in her stomach and radiating outward and up through her chest and as far as her throat. It fills her up. She tentatively looks over at Holly. There it is, that wry, warm smile, intentional this time. It's only half-lit, but Gail will take it. Seeing it makes her feel like she can breath again.

But although she doesn't want to, she drags her eyes away from that smile, only because she knows she will never be brave or bold enough to say even half the things she wants to say if she is looking at Holly. So she looks down instead, plucking at the sleeve of her jumper and, not knowing how else to do it, she dives right in.

"Holly, I am so sorry."

Holly doesn't say anything. Gail sighs, teasing at a loose thread on the sleeve.

"I don't really know how to explain it. I've been dumped. A _lot_." She adds, frowning. "You've heard about some of it… with Nick …both times. And that's not all. People, they tend to … leave me." She speaks quickly, wishing she were better at explaining herself. "I'm guessing I'm pretty dump-able. And I'm guessing I'm kind of to blame for it." She pauses again, chewing on her bottom lip. "And … I guess it is because I kind of make it hard to be around me, sometimes."

"Sometimes." Holly agrees, folding her arms over her chest,

That single word of admission stings. Enough that it is all Gail can do not to let the hurt spiral into anger. _No, don't_, she tells herself. _It's true. And you deserve it_.

She presses her lips together, takes a breath and continues.

"And I think I'm looking for reasons for you to dump me before there are even really reasons." She stares at the flashing digits on the clock on Holly's desk. The power must have gone off at some point. "Which there probably will be."

She sneaks a glance at Holly. She is just sitting there, looking back at Gail, her face calm and open. _God, she's lovely,_ Gail thinks. She wants to go over and wrap her arms around her and feel Holly's breath on her neck, but she knows she has not yet done anything to earn permission to do that. And she knows, somehow, that, however responsive, however kind, Holly is not just going to let this go without dealing with this. Besides, she knows she owes it to Holly to at least try and explain herself.

"And I guess because of that- well, that's why I think I subconsciously… " The very fact she is using pop psychology term like subconscious distracts her from finding the right word to use next. She hasn't used terms like that since the post-kidnap therapist. She hates this stuff, but she doesn't know how else to describe it. She chews her lip and looks at the ground. "I kind of …"

"If we are playing Find a Word, again," Holly says, "The verb I am going to go with is 'sabotage'."

"Sabotage." Gail repeats, nodding. That would be the word.

"I don't know, I just … freak out. I don't know how to explain it, and don't know why I get like this. It's like, in my rational mind, when I step back, I know I do this, but then in the moment, it's different, and I don't know I am doing it when I am actually doing it. It's like I am trying to punish people for something that's actually really just wrong with me." She takes a deep breath, pausing, before whispering. "But I don't know what's wrong with me," she whispers, shaking her head and raising her hands, helpless. She can feel tears pricking the back of her eyes. She really, really doesn't want to cry. She presses her lips together, willing them away, unable to speak. Why does she have to always be so _un_together, especially when Holly is nearly always so together? She takes a deep breath, trying to free the tightness in her throat.

Holly, kind as ever, picks up her slack.

"Gail, I get it." She drops her hands by her side and leans forward, stretching out her legs in front of her. There is a long pause, as if she is trying to figure out what to say. Gail feels a shimmer of guilt. It is her that should be figuring out what to say.

Holly sighs. Finally, she speaks. "I can deal with cranky Gail- I even find it endearing. I can also deal with jealous Gail. Frankly, I have an ego and she's kind of flattering."

Gail bites back a small smile.

"But complete unfounded tailspins of insecurity about things we have no say over- and no need to even think about right now?" Holly lifts her palms up in air. "I have absolutely no idea how to deal with that."

"I know. I'm really sorry." Gail whispers, nodding. It is not exactly what she would like to say, but it is all she can think of.

"All I can do is tell you this," Holly pushes herself off the sofa back and takes a step toward Gail, speaking softly. "I am really into you. So _very _into you. Heck, like I said, I even like snarky Gail- I kind of have a crush on her." She reaches out and takes Gail's hand for a moment before dropping it. "And I really want this to be something. But…" she frowns. "… I can't cope with this cold, even _cruel_ person you become when you think someone is going to hurt you. I hate it, and I don't deserve it."

"I … know." Gail stammers, looking down and letting the tears go. They have won. The truth hurts. But Gail knows right now she deserves it. She _can_ be cruel. She shakes her head. "I know you don't," she says quietly.

"And you know I have no idea what is going to happen with us. You know this because you have no idea either."

Gail nods. She crosses her arms over her chest, blinking at tears. "I wish I did."

"So do I." Holly tells her. "I wish that about everything all the time. So does everyone who ever cared about anything. But not knowing doesn't scare me so much it paralyses me."

"I don't now if… maybe you should just leave this … me." Gail wipes her nose with her sleeve, looking back down at the ground.

"Don't be a coward, Gail." Holly reaches out and takes a hold of Gail's jumper, tugging it gently, "I don't want to. You just have to try harder to deal with uncertainty, and maybe figuring out these feelings. ."

Gail nods.

Holly's voice softens. "Besides, I couldn't ever be rid of you that easily. You're so annoyingly … inescapable," She sighs. "Even today, while I was dissecting a liver, there you were, in my mind."

Gail wrinkles her nose and smiles ruefully, sniffing. "Ew."

Made braver by the return of Holly's sense of humour, she steps forward, but doesn't touch her, leaving some space between them.

"I am really, really, really sorry." She stares at Holly, blinking at those final tears that formed but didn't fall. "I am going to be … I'm going to try … to not be so crazy."

"Good, you have to." Holly tells her. "I'm patient, but I'm human."

Gail nods. "I will."

"Promise?" Holly smiles, tipping her head to the side. "Because you are really very, _very_ good at it."

Gail nods. "I promise."

"Good enough. For now." Holly whispers. She reaches out and wraps her arms around Gail's neck. "Good enough." She says again, before pulling Gail toward her. Gail buries her face in Holly's neck and breathes in deep, smelling that beautiful Holly smell.

"I feel … lucky." Gail whispers into her hair. Holly says nothing. She just wraps a hand around Gail's neck and holds her tighter. Gail feels a little bit like she is going to cry again. _Don't be such as sap_, she chides herself, smiling into Holly's shoulder.

When they eventually part, Holly is smiling. Her brown eyes look heavier than usual, and red.

"You look tired." Gail tells her, concerned.

"So do you." Holly replies, looping her arms around Gail's waist.

"Does your head really feel okay?" Gail asks, resting her forehead gently against Holly's.

"It will," Holly replies. "It's just my eyes. I have an appointment in a couple of days to get my eyes checked. I'll just have to put up with it until then."

"Poor you." Gail stands back, lifts her hands and encircles Holly's face. She gently places her thumbs into the space between Holly's eyebrows and smoothes them up and over her eyebrows in a slow arc.

"Mm," Holly purrs, leaning into her touch. "That feels good. How do you know to do that?"

"I notice things, Holly," Gail tells her, haughty. "I'm not completely useless, you know."

"Ah, there's Gail." Holly returns her smile. "And no, you are definitely not useless," she whispers.

To be continued...

* * *

**Review are always appreciated! **


	32. Chapter 32: Holly

Holly sits there and takes in the sight of Gail making her a cup of tea and wonders how they managed to make it to this moment. One minute she was asleep, and now _this_ is happening.

"That's okay," Holly had said, when Gail had offered to make her tea, sweetly concerned about her headache. "I can make it. I know where everything is."

"I am sure I can probably figure it out," Gail told her, turning toward the bench. "That's the thing with kitchens, no matter what, they all share the same internal logic."

"Uh … huh," Holly said slowly. Will she ever stop being surprised by the randomness— and the odd wisdom— of the things that come out of Gail's mouth sometimes? She sits back against the back of the couch and watches her in action.

So, seemingly determined to make Holly her cup of tea, Gail strides around the bench, into the kitchen and yanks open the cupboard doors.

"On the left," Holly tells her.

Gail plucks out the box of tea bags and turns to Holly, shooting her a look.

"I probably would have figured that out in, oh, half a second if you'd just waited."

Holly grins and holds up her hands in apology.

Gail opens the fridge door and bends over, peering inside.

"On the bottom …" Holly starts before she can check herself.

Gail slowly stands, turns, and gives her the eye again.

"You need to go away now," she says, "Or I will be starting to think I've found another bad thing about you."

"What would that be, exactly?"

"Two words. Control. Freak."

Holly chuckles, folding her arms across her chest. It wouldn't be the first time she has heard that in a kitchen. "Close. Three words."

"What?"

"Kitchen. Control. Freak." Holly grins. "I am. I admit it. Everywhere else, though, I like to think I'm pretty easygoing."

"Okay, well, fine," Gail tells her. "I know it's hard to imagine, given the very basic nature of my line of work, but I can actually handle small tasks like, you know, boiling water and locating one, maybe two ingredients." She folds her arms over her chest, smiling, faux sweet. "Do you take sugar, Holly?"

"No." Holly tells her. She smiles again. It's good to have Gail back, in more ways than one.

"Good, because that might have been to much for me. Now hush and get out of my business." She lifts a hand and waves Holly away.

Obediently, Holly gets up and walks around the couch, flopping down onto it. She kicks up her legs and sits back against the soft cushioned arms and rubs her eyes again. Her head still hurts, but she is feeling good. She sits there, her arms wrapped around her legs, and listens to the businesslike clatters and bangs of Gail making the tea and does not say a word, as instructed.

She slowly closes her eyes, listening to the sound of the kettle gathering steam, thinking over the last half an hour and wonders if she caved too quickly. Did she just give in because the sight of Gail, so distraught, displaying such emotional frailty was too much and too sad to watch?

Maybe.

But Holly knows she has her eyes open. She knows this won't be the end of Gail's vulnerabilities showing themselves in alarming and unexpected ways. And she also knows that this step is probably only a tiny one in the right direction for Gail, that they will probably confront these things again. But she is also sure Gail is starting to recognise some things about herself, and about her fears and insecurities. More importantly, she knows Gail really is sorry. She doesn't doubt that for a second.

And Holly knows that maybe, just maybe she has given in a little too easily. But how can she not when all she wanted when she got home from work, tired and head sore and sick of this silence, was Gail? And then upon waking having that very want manifest itself in the form of a contrite Gail on her doorstep? No, Holly could not resist. And therein lies the very problem of Gail.

She opens her eyes as she hears the kettle turn itself off. She hears the sound of water hitting porcelain and a moment later a steaming mug is thrust over the back of the couch right in her eye line. She reaches up and gingerly takes it with both hands.

Gail appears around the other side of sofa with another tea for herself. She sits down, cradling the mug in her hands. She kicks off her boots and brings her legs up and around so she is facing Holly, knees bent, toes lined up against Holly's.

"See how I did that? Amazing, right?" She raises an eyebrow. Just the one.

Holly just smiles benignly at Gail, her beautiful curmudgeon, and presses her feet over Gail's.

"Like I said, not _completely_ useless." Gail leans back against the arm of the sofa and sighs.

"Okay, okay." Holly takes a sip. There is a bit more milk than she likes, but it is a decent cup of tea. "It's perfect. Thank you."

"You are very welcome," Gail takes a sip from her own cup.

Holly rests her mug in her lap and tips her head back against the cushions, watching Gail drink, frowning into the steam rising out of her cup. She closes her eyes for a moment. She can hear the sound of car doors slamming and people laughing outside in the rear car park. Sometimes, when she's at home working, tied to her desk she is envious of those people, those sounds and wherever it is they may be going. Not tonight.

"Tell me something good." she says, stretching an arm out luxuriously behind her, and settling deeper into the sofa.

"What?"

"Tell me something good about you." She pokes Gail's shin with her toe.

Gail narrows her eyes. "I hope that wasn't your creepy toe."

"Hush." Holly tells her. "Now, you made me tell you something bad about me. I want to know something good about you."

"No." Gail shakes her head.

"Oh go on." Holly grins at her. But Gail is having none of it.

"No" Gail shrugs, frowning. "Too hard. I can't think of anything."

"Okay, then tell me something you like." Holly is not giving up on this one.

"Something I like?"

"Yup."

"You." Gail purrs and then smiles fawningly, clearly very satisfied with the level of cheesiness attained.

"Ha ha." Holly tells her, stretching out her left leg and poking Gail in the side before dropping it to rest along the inside of the couch. "Something else."

Gail contemplates the question for a moment, tipping her head to the side as she thinks.

"I'm good at video games. I mean, really, weirdly, good at them."

"Boring." Holly tells her, reaching for her cup again. "Try again."

Gail sighs. "This is a stupid game."

"A stupid game that you thought of."

"My version was better. This one is hard. And dumb."

"No it's not. I want to know," Holly digs her foot into Gail's side again. "Please?"

"Stop it!" Gail grabs hold of her foot. "Okay!"

Gail sits there, quiet for a moment, deep in thought, as if she has decided to finally, really contemplate the question. Holly lies back and watches her think, enjoying the opportunity to just sit and take her in. Gail is most beautiful when she doesn't notice she is being looked at, when she is without self-consciousness.

"I know something. I suppose it's good," Gail screws up her face, as if she is considering whether it is or not. "I can speak sign language, should you ever, you know, need it."

"Really?" Holly raises her eyebrows.

"Really." Gail tells her.

"Say something."

"Okay," Gail sits up, reaches over and hands her cup to Holly. She doesn't even stop to think think, but forges ahead, her small pale hands moving whip-quick between her face and body and each other as she joins together a series of signs, her blue eyes shining. As abruptly as she started, she stops and takes her cup back from Holly.

"What did you just say to me?" Holly narrows her eyes at Gail.

"I said 'stop asking me to say nice things about myself. It's weird and awkward.'"

Holly laughs. "And asking someone to pre-emptively list the bad things about themselves, when they have been dating for, like, five minutes, is _not _weird and awkward?"

Gail shrugs. "Well, if it keeps me from freaking out ..." She stretches out her legs, sliding them alongside Holly's

"Hah, true." Holly concedes, putting down her cup and bringing her hands down to rest on Gail's shins. "So why sign language?"

"It wasn't my idea, actually. It was the mother's. When I decided to apply for the police force." She tucks her hands behind her head and looks up at the ceiling as she talks. "Being bilingual is really helpful in getting a good posting. I already knew French, but …"

"You speak French, too?"

"Yes, of course." Gail brushes off the question. "Anyway, Momma Peck had read an article about how the force was really in need of people with ASL, so she bugged me into signing up for classes. I guess she thought it would improve my resume and my chances at getting a job at a city division in the end, instead of some suburban outpost." Gail frowns. "Like they don't have deaf people in the suburbs."

"Well, I guess it worked out."

"Yeah, it worked." Gail shrugs. "And I liked learning it. I seem to be kind of good at languages."

"Do you use it a lot?"

"Sometimes," Gail nods. "I do get rusty though, when I don't use it much. We had a case last week, a little girl. Her Grandpa had a heart attack while he was looking after her. The poor little thing kept calling 911 over and over again, even though she couldn't speak or hear. Saved him."

"Wow."

"I know. She told me at the hospital she had run up and down the hall, terrified, knocking on all the neighbours' doors, but no one single was home. So she just started calling 911. Sometimes she'd be banging the phone on the wall to let them know someone was there. Smart kid." she shakes her head.

"And you were the only one who could talk to her?"

""Until her mother arrived at the hospital."

"That's really amazing."

"I guess." Gail shrugs, looking down at her tea, playing like it is nothing. But Holly spies her small, bashful smile.

She smiles too. She had not meant for this little game to turn into a therapy session— they've had enough therapy for one night—but she wonders how often Gail lets herself think good things about her self. Not very often, she'd guess.

She closes her eyes, rubbing her forehead again and yawning.

"Are you tired? Does your head hurt?" Gail sits up.

"A little. It's always like this when I need new glasses. It's okay." Holly tells her, placing her hands back down on Gail's legs. She has absolutely no idea what time it is. "And I'm not the least bit tired. I slept already, remember? Are you?"

"I'm not tired either," Gail says, looking at her with a smile that seems to say what she really means is that it doesn't matter if she is tired, that she is happy right here, on this couch, with Holly.

Holly sighs, glad. She feels dangerously happy. Moments like these in life, when you feel like you have all the time in the world, like everything is possible and laid out in front of you, are her favourite moments. She wants it to last.

She looks back at Gail for a long time, then the urge to be closer to her takes over. She pushes herself off the sofa and stands, placing her mug on the table. She steps over to the other end of the end and climbs back on, sitting so she is astride Gail's legs. Gail looks up at her for a long moment, not smiling, not speaking. Her eyes, which always seem to shift in shade, are a still lake blue today. Finally, she reaches up and tugs gently at the ends of Holly's loose hair, smiling ever so slightly. Holly loves how she already has a habit of doing that. It's such a Gail move- affectionate, but not.

Holly leans down, kissing her, before whispering.

"Tell me one more thing."

"More?" Gail's eyes go wide. "No! Enough," she begs, grabbing a handful of Holly's singlet and tugging her downward for another kiss.

"Just one more thing." Holly begs her, tracing her finger along Gail's cheek. "I like learning things about you."

Gail shakes her head, but looks at her for a long moment, contemplative, biting her lip, as if she might be reconsidering.

"Okay, well, you want to know something I learned at police training?"

"What?"

"We learned that if the witness won't cooperate, won't give you the information you need, the best way to get it is to distract them. If they aren't focussed on the fact you are trying to get something from them then they are more likely to give you what you want, kind of by accident. Know what I mean?"

"Yes, but like how?" Holly asks, curious. She knows so little about how police are trained to operate, despite how much time she spends among police officers.

"We were taught to do things like get them telling a story only vaguely related to what you want to know. Or you can sympathise by telling your own story, something that might draw them out. Depends on the customer." Gail tells her, sliding her hands slowly up and down Holly's bare arms. "Or you can even feed them."

"And so, are you good at this distraction technique?"

"I'm okay. Sometimes I get too impatient."

"What a surprise."

"Shut up." She pinches Holly's arm.

"So what would you do if were me and you wanted something from me?"

"If it were you…" She frowns, as if considering the question. "If it were you, I'd do things a little differently."

"Oh yeah, what?"

Gail doesn't answer. She just smiles, slowly reaches down and yanks at the bottom of her sweater. And before Holly knows it, she is slowly pulling it up and over her head, until she is sitting there in only her bra.

Holly laughs. This girl is _ridiculous_. Sometimes, in all the right ways.

Some of Gail's hair has come loose, falling onto her face. She pushes it back and throws her sweater and shirt onto the floor. She settles back against the sofa on her elbows, shooting Holly a smug look, daring her not to respond in exactly the way Gail wants her to respond.

"Hussy."

Gail just continues to smile, brazen.

"I could see how that might work." Holly concedes, leaning back so she can take her in. She reaches out and runs her fingertips slowly along the taut white skin covering Gail's collarbones. She then trails them down the pale stretch of skin, dipping between the cups of her bra and onto her stomach. Gail takes a sharp inward breath. Holly slowly runs her hands around Gail's waist before she comes to a halt.

'What is _that_? She asks, spotting the early blooms of what is clearly a huge bruise radiating from the waistband of Gail's jeans.

Gail frowns and looks down at where Holly is looking.

"Oh, yeah. I'll tell you about it later, okay?" She yanks on Holly's singlet again.

Holly ignores her, taking in the spectacular contusion.

"It looks really sore. How did it happen?"

"It is," Gail shrugs, ignoring the second question. "But it doesn't matter."

"You've been making a fuss of my headache, and you have _that _puppy?" Holly shakes her head. She knows Gail is a tough lady, but seriously.

"Well, you know, this week has been enough about me," Gail sighs. "Seriously, so Holly?"

"Mmm?" Holly replies, still staring at the wound.

Gail grabs her singlet harder, pulling her closer until Holly is forced to look away and up at Gail.

"Please, _please_ shut up about it and come here." She begs.

Holly chuckles.

"O_kay_."

As soon as their lips meet, Gail lets go of her stranglehold on the material and runs her hands slowly up Holly's side. Holly sighs, shuts her eyes, and kisses her harder. Gail's hand circle slowly under her arms and up until she is tracing her fingers along her neck and back down, running her fingers lightly along the low scoop of her tank top.

"Okay, so …" Holly whispers. "Your finely honed and _incredibly _subtle distraction tactics will get you everywhere, I believe."

"I know."


End file.
